THE  GREAT 
GALEOTO 


JOSE    ECHEGARAY 


LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


PRESENTED  BY 

Douwe  Stuurman 


The  Drama  League  Series  of  Plays 
VOLUME  III 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


THE 
GREAT  GALEOTO 

A  PLAY  IN  THREE  ACTS 
With  a  Prologue 

BY 
JOSE  ECHEGARAY 

TRANSLATED  BY 

HANNAH  LYNCH 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

ELIZABETH   R.  HUNT 


DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

1914 


Copyright,  1914,  by 

DOTJBLEDAY,  PAGE    &  COMPANY 

Att  rights  reserved,  including  thai  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 


INTRODUCTION 

THE  venerable  author  of  El  Gran  Galeoto  may  be 
said  to  have  won  a  Double  First  in  the  university  of 
life.  For  many  years  he  has  been  recognized  as  pre- 
eminent among  Spanish  mathematicians,  and  equally 
distinguished  among  Spanish  dramatists.  To  say 
that  he  is  one  of  the  first  mathematicians  in  the  world 
and  the  most  famous  dramatist  Spain  has  produced 
for  two  centuries,  would  be  nearer  the  truth. 

Doubtless  the  story  of  Echegaray's  life  will  one  day 
be  told  as  it  deserves  to  be,  fully,  vividly,  with  a  just 
sense  of  its  extraordinary  values  and  implications. 
For  the  moment,  however,  we  are  concerned  with 
biographical  detail  merely  as  it  helps  to  interpret 
"The  Great  Galeoto,"  that  sternest  and  mightiest 
tragedy  in  the  long  list  of  his  plays. 

The  outstanding  facts  in  the  life  of  this  great 
mathematician,  statesman,  and  dramatist  are  these: 

Jose'  Echegaray  was  born  at  Madrid  in  1833. 
While  he  was  still  a  child,  his  father  was  appointed 
Professor  of  Greek  in  the  Institute  of  Murcia.  Here 
[v] 


INTRODUCTION 


the  gifted  boy  began  his  education  under  most  favour- 
able conditions.  From  the  first  he  showed  a  clearly 
defined  taste  for  mathematics.  At  the  age  of  fifteen 
he  returned  to  Madrid  to  enter  the  Escuela  de  Cami- 
nos.  From  this  great  school  he  was  graduated  in 
1853  with  the  highest  honours,  at  the  head  of  the 
list  of  engineers.  Soon  afterward  he  returned  to  the 
scene  of  his  triumphs  to  occupy  the  chair  of  pure 
and  applied  mathematics.  For  thirteen  years  he 
devoted  himself  chiefly  to  the  study  and  teaching  of 
such  subjects  as  the  integral  calculus,  theoretical  and 
applied  mechanics,  hydrostatics,  descriptive  geome- 
try, etc.  Incidentally  he  was  greatly  absorbed  in 
philosophy,  political  economy,  and  the  politics  of 
the  day.  When  the  popular  movement  of  1868 
overthrew  the  monarchy,  he  resigned  his  post  for  a 
place  in  the  new  Cabinet.  For  seven  years  he  was 
Minister  of  Commerce,  of  Education  and  of  Finance. 
Upon  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbon  dynasty,  he 
withdrew  from  politics,  and  won  a  new  reputation 
as  a  dramatist.  In  1874,  when  he  was  forty  years 
old,  El  Libro  Talonario,  the  first  of  his  plays  to  be 
produced,  was  staged  in  Madrid.  Since  then  he  has 
written  with  varying  success  more  than  fifty  plays, 
sometimes  at  the  rate  of  four  a  year.  To-day  he  is 
[vi] 


INTRODUCTION 


by  far  the  most  popular  dramatist  in  Spain,  his  fame 
has  spread  wherever  Spanish  is  spoken,  and  his  finest 
plays,  as  El  Gran  Galeoto  and  Mariana,  have  been 
translated  into  several  languages,  and  are  holding 
their  own  in  the  contemporary  theatre. 

It  remains  to  add  that  in  1905  Echegaray  returned 
to  politics,  and  since  then  has  held  the  office  of 
Minister  of  Finance. 

The  barest  outline  of  facts  and  dates  in  this  mar- 
velous career  is  enough  to  arrest  the  attention.  But 
the  few  anecdotes  and  character  sketches  which  are 
available  lend  a  little  colour. 

For  example,  the  story  of  how  Echegaray  wrote 
his  first  play  has  always  been  current  among  his 
readers,  and  it  leads  rather  directly  to  the  later  and 
greater  play  in  hand. 

It  was  when  the  professor  at  the  Escuela,  then 
about  thirty  years  old,  was  vastly  absorbed  in 
his  pure  and  applied  mathematics  —  subjects  far 
enough  removed  from  the  drama,  it  would  seem  — 
that  his  younger  brother,  a  mere  lad,  wrote  a  short 
play  in  verse,  which  was  put  on  the  stage.  Jose, 
startled  and  amused,  began  at  once  to  experiment 
with  a  stage  plot  and  versified  speeches.  Nothing 
came  of  it  except  that,  recognizing  how  imperfect  his 
[vii] 


INTRODUCTION 


work  was,  he  addressed  himself  with  his  accustomed 
energy  to  the  study  of  dramatic  composition.  Diffi- 
culties, even  impossibilities,  have  always  aroused  in 
this  great  Spaniard  a  brave  spirit  of  defiance. 

However,  when  Echegaray  made  this  late  and 
casual  beginning  as  a  dramatist,  he  seems  to  have 
been  not  wholly  unprepared  for  his  self-imposed  task. 
While  a  student  at  the  Escuela  he  read  many  novels 
in  many  languages,  and  what  is  more  to  the  point, 
habitually  frequented  the  theatre,  especially  on  first 
nights.  He  had  undoubtedly  progressed  far  in  one 
study  which  is  indispensable  to  the  playwright,  and 
which  can  be  pursued  nowhere  but  in  the  theatre  — 
the  study  of  audiences. 

Indeed,  the  transition  from  mathematics  and  en- 
gineering to  poetry  and  the  drama  is  not  so  rare  and 
difficult  as  it  at  first  appears.  College  students,  where- 
ever  found,  who  specialize  in  the  exact  sciences,  often 
develop  an  omnivorous  appetite  for  literature,  and  a 
feeling  for  good  plays  which  makes  them  the  keenest 
of  critics  in  the  theatre.  And  as  far  as  the  writing  of 
plays  is  concerned,  since  it  is  always,  however  sub- 
consciously, a  constructive  process,  hard  practice  in 
building  anything  —  bridges,  tunnels,  machines  — 
cannot  come  quite  amiss  to  the  dramatist, 
[viii] 


INTRODUCTION 


It  is  easy  to  fancy  that  no  one  who  was  not  fond  of 
a  struggle  against  odds  would  ever  have  attempted 
to  write  "The  Great  Galeoto,"  for  the  theme  pre- 
sents peculiar  difficulties.  It  is  easy  to  fancy,  too, 
that  only  a  mathematician  would  have  framed  the 
play  so  symmetrically,  stating  the  problem  in  the 
Prologue,  and  then  working  it  out  so  precisely  to  a 
catastrophic  Q.  E.  D.  Even  the  six  characters  are 
exactly  balanced,  three  in  one  household,  a  corres- 
ponding three  in  the  other. 

The  title  is  best  explained  in  a  few  sentences  taken 
from  one  of  Ernesto's  long  speeches : 

Galeoto  was  the  go-between  for  Queen  Guinevere 
and  Lancelot;  and  in  all  loves  the  third  may  be  truth- 
fully nicknamed  Galeoto.  .  .  .  Sometimes  it  is 
the  entire  social  mass  that  is  Galeoto  .  .  .  but 
so  dexterously  does  it  work  against  honour  and  mod- 
esty, that  no  greater  Galeoto  can  ever  be  found. 
Let  a  man  and  woman  live  happily  in  tranquil  and 
earnest  fulfilment  of  their  separate  duties.  .  .  . 
One  morning  somebody  takes  the  trouble  to  notice 
them,  and  from  that  moment,  behold  society,  with- 
out aim  or  object,  on  the  hunt  for  hidden  frailty  and 
impurity.  .  .  .  And  the  terrible  thing  is,  that 
while  it  begins  in  error,  it  generally  ends  in  truth. 

From  this  it  appears  that  it  was  Echegaray's  high 
ambition  to  make  neither  a  comedy  of  gossip,  like 
[ix] 


INTRODUCTION 


Le  Misanthrope,  nor  a  tragedy  of  slander,  like  Othello, 
but  a  unique  play,  midway  between  —  a  tragedy  of 
idle,  non-malicious  gossip,  the  only  achievement  of 
its  kind  in  dramatic  literature. 

The  villain  of  the  play  is  "They,"  "Everybody," 
the  entire  social  mass,  a  monster  of  a  thousand  heads, 
a  being  too  vague  and  dispersed  to  be  set  down  in  the 
play  bill  or  to  make  his  way  to  the  stage.  But  as  he 
must  for  theatrical  purposes  be  somehow  objectified, 
he  is  represented  by  the  three  members  of  a  meddle- 
some family.  Another  way  to  put  it  is  to  say  that 
these  busybodies,  in  all  their  sayings  and  doings,  are 
invisibly  backed  and  surrounded  by  the  whole  social 
world  in  which  the  two  families  move.  However, 
in  the  matter  of  idle,  aimless  talk,  it  is  difficult 
to  make  individuals  fairly  represent  a  community. 
The  most  significant  line  in  the  play  is  from  one  of 
Pepito's  soliloquies,  when  he  recalls  the  fact  that 
Ernesto  and  Mercedes,  the  innocent  victims  of  many 
dispersed  trivialities,  hardly  ever  went  out  alone  — 
that  possibly  they  had  never  been  seen  alone  more 
than  once.  But  he  adds,  "That's  enough.  If  a 
hundred  persons  saw  them  on  that  occasion,  it  is 
quite  the  same  as  if  they  had  been  seen  in  public  a 
hundred  times." 


INTRODUCTION 


Now  each  one  of  these  hundred  people  who  give 
the  tragedy  its  impulse  is  supposed  to  make  an  ab- 
solutely idle,  careless  comment,  free  from  guile,  for- 
gotten while  it  was  uttered.  But  it  is  quite  another 
matter  with  the  gossipers  who  represent  "Everybody," 
on  the  stage.  Since  they  must  in  the  working  out 
of  the  plot  create  a  dramatic  and  ultimately  a  tragic 
situation,  it  is  difficult  to  preserve  them  from  the 
appearance  of  malice.  In  fact,  it  is  impossible. 
This  play,  for  all  its  greatness,  is  in  a  sense  a  failure. 
Now  and  then  there  is  a  colloquy  which  seems  hardly 
better  than  a  heavy-handed  Spanish  school  for  scan- 
dal. But  such  loss  of  distinction  is  only  temporary. 
There  are  many  scenes,  notably  in  the  first  and  third 
acts,  where  the  difficulties  are  triumphantly  over- 
come, and  impressions  almost  unknown  to  the  stage 
are  subtly  created. 

The  shading  and  grading  of  effects,  which  always 
taxes  the  finest  dramatic  art,  is  especially  well  con- 
served. The  action  begins  with  a  situation  of  per- 
fect balance  and  repose,  in  which  Teodora,  Julian, 
and  Ernesto,  described  as  an  innocent  woman  and  two 
honest  men,  are  quite  harmonious.  Inside  the  nar- 
row limits  of  three  acts  it  culminates  with  the  tragic 
wreck  of  the  household,  and  then  passes  on  to  a 
[xi] 


INTRODUCTION 


catastrophe  of  marvelous  power  and  pathos.  As  a 
whole,  the  work  is  a  marked  instance  of  the  almost 
complete  vanquishing  of  intangible  and  insurmount- 
able difficulties. 

Moreover,  it  is  of  a  kind  not  common  to  the  stage 
of  to-day.  One  result,  by  no  means  desirable,  of 
Ibsen's  all-pervading  influence,  is  that  modern  trag- 
edy has  become  so  sordid,  so  austerely  and  bleakly 
realistic,  as  to  depress  and  devitalize.  Here,  for  our 
relief,  is  tragedy  in  the  grand  style,  thrilling,  inspir- 
ing, commingling  fate  and  moral  responsibility  so  as 
to  produce,  as  an  ultimate  effect,  the  true  tragic 
reaction  and  stimulation.  When  the  final  curtain 
rings  down,  Aristotle's  pity  and  fear  seize  all  minds 
and  hearts.  The  pity  is  for  the  sad  end  of  Don 
Julian,  mortally  wounded  in  a  duel  fought  to  avenge 
himself  and  save  his  dearest  friend,  and  for  Teodora 
and  Ernesto,  the  innocent  victims  who  kneel  at  his 
feet  in  the  last  pathetic  scene.  The  fear  that  spreads 
among  the  spectators  is  lest  they,  too,  may  some  time 
be  victims  of  "Everybody,"  the  monster  of  a  thou- 
sand heads;  and  perhaps  also  lest  they  may  at  any 
moment,  by  careless  word  or  glance,  strengthen  the 
baleful  power  of  this  vague  and  vast  Galeoto  over 
their  neighbours  and  friends. 
lift] 


INTRODUCTION 


It  would  be  hopeless,  with  any  amount  of  space  at 
command,  to  get  before  the  reader  an  adequate  idea 
of  the  content  and  spirit  of  this  play.  Fortunately, 
the  purpose  of  an  introduction  is  to  introduce,  not 
to  describe.  Let  me  then  present  to  the  attention 
of  those  who  love  great  drama  this  powerful  and  im- 
pressive work,  the  only  tragedy  of  idle  gossip  in  all 
dramatic  literature.  It  deserves,  in  form  complete 
and  unchanged,  the  most  conscientious  interpreta- 
tion that  can  be  given  it  upon  the  stage;  and  it  should 
never  be  allowed  to  disappear  from  the  contemporary 
theatre. 

ELIZABETH  R.  HUNT. 

Evanston,  Illinois. 


PROLOGUE 


PERSONS  OF  THE  DRAMA 

TEODORA,  Wife  of 

DON  JULIAN. 

DONA  MERCEDES,  Wife  of 

DON  SEVERO. 

PEPITO,  Their  Son. 

ERNEST. 

A  WITNESS. 

Two  SERVANTS. 


PROLOGUE 

SCENE:    Madrid  of  our  day. 

A  study;  to  the  left  a  balcony,  on  right  a  door;  in  the 
middle  a  table  strewn  with  papers  and  books,  and  a 
lighted  lamp  upon  it;  toward  the  right  a  sofa.  Night. 

SCENE  I 

ERNEST  [Seated  at  table  and  preparing  to  write]. 
Nothing  —  impossible!  It  is  striving  with  the  im- 
possible. The  idea  is  there;  my  head  is  fevered  with 
it;  I  feel  it.  At  moments  an  inward  light  illuminates 
it,  and  I  see  it.  I  see  it  in  its  floating  form,  vaguely 
outlined,  and  suddenly  a  secret  voice  seems  to  ani- 
mate it,  and  I  hear  sounds  of  sorrow,  sonorous  sighs, 
shouts  of  sardonic  laughter  ...  a  whole  world 
of  passions  alive  and  struggling.  .  .  .  They 
burst  forth  from  me,  extend  around  me,  and  the  air 
is  full  of  them.  Then,  then  I  say  to  myself :  "Tis 
now  the  moment."  I  take  up  my  pen,  stare  into 
space,  listen  attentively,  restraining  my  very  heart- 

[3] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


beats,  and  bend  over  the  paper.  .  .  .  Ah,  but 
the  irony  of  impotency!  The  outlines  become 
blurred,  the  vision  fades,  the  cries  and  sighs  faint 
away  .  .  .  and  nothingness,  nothingness  en- 
circles me.  .  .  .  The  monotony  of  empty  space, 
of  inert  thought,  of  dreamy  lassitude!  and  more  than 
all  the  monotony  of  an  idle  pen  and  lifeless  paper 
that  lacks  the  life  of  thought!  Ah!  How  varied  are 
the  shapes  of  nothingness,  and  how,  in  its  dark  and 
silent  way,  it  mocks  creatures  of  my  stamp!  So 
many,  many  forms!  Canvas  without  colour,  bits 
of  marble  without  shape,  confused  noise  of  chaotic 
vibrations.  But  nothing  more  irritating,  more 
insolent,  meaner  than  this  insolent  pen  of  mine 
[throws  it  away],  nothing  worse  than  this  white  sheet 
of  paper.  Oh,  if  I  cannot  fill  it,  at  least  I  may  de- 
stroy it  —  vile  accomplice  of  my  ambition  and  my 
eternal  humiliation.  Thus,  thus  .  .  .  smaller 
and  still  smaller.  [Tears  up  paper.  Pauses.]  And 
then!  How  lucky  that  nobody  saw  me!  For  in 
truth  such  fury  is  absurd  and  unjust.  No,  I  will 
not  yield.  I  will  think  and  think,  until  either  I 
have  conquered  or  am  crushed.  No,  I  will  not 
give  up.  Let  me  see,  let  me  see  ...  if  in  that 

way 

[4] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


SCENE  II 

ERNEST.    DON  JULIAN  on  the  right,  in  evening-dress, 
with  overcoat  upon  his  arm. 

D.  JULIAN  [At  the  door,  without  entering].  I 
say,  EAiest! 

ERNEST.    Don  Julian! 

D.  JULIAN.    Still  working?    Do  I  disturb  you? 

ERNEST  [Rising].  Disturb  me!  What  a  question, 
Don  Julian!  Come  in,  come  in.  And  Teodora? 

[DoN  JULIAN  enters. 

D.  JULIAN.  We  have  just  come  from  the  opera. 
She  has  gone  upstairs  with  my  brother,  to  see  some- 
thing or  other  that  Mercedes  has  bought,  and  I  was 
on  my  way  to  my  room  when  I  saw  your  light,  so  I 
stopped  to  say  good-night. 

ERNEST.     Was  there  a  good  house? 

D.  JULIAN.  As  usual.  All  our  friends  inquired 
after  you.  They  wondered  you  were  not  there,  too. 

ERNEST.    That  was  kind  of  them. 

D.  JULIAN.  Not  more  than  you  deserve.  And 
how  have  you  improved  the  shining  hours  of  solitude 
and  inspiration! 

ERNEST.    Solitude,  yes;  inspiration,  no.     It  shuns 
me  though  I  call  on  it  never  so  humbly  and  fondly. 
[5] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


D.  JULIAN.     It  has  failed  at  the  rendezvous? 

ERNEST.  And  not  for  the  first  time,  either.  But 
if  I  have  done  nothing  else,  at  least  I  have  made  a 
happy  discovery. 

D.  JULIAN.    What? 

ERNEST.     That  I  am  a  poor  devil. 

D.  JULIAN.  The  deuce!  That's  a  famous  dis- 
covery. 

ERNEST.    Nothing  less. 

D.  JULIAN.  But  why  are  you  so  out  of  sorts 
with  yourself?  Is  the  play  you  talked  of  the  other 
day  not  going  on? 

ERNEST.  How  can  it?  The  going  on  is  done  by 
me  going  out  of  my  wits. 

D.  JULIAN.  How  is  this?  Both  the  drama  and 
inspiration  are  faithless  to  my  poor  friend. 

ERNEST.  This  is  how  I  stand.  When  I  first 
conceived  the  idea,  I  imagined  it  full  of  promise,  but 
when  I  attempt  to  give  it  form,  and  vest  it  in  appro- 
priate stage  garb,  the  result  shows  something  ex- 
traordinary, difficult,  undramatic,  and  impossible. 

D.  JULIAN.  How  is  it  impossible?  Come,  tell 
me.  You've  excited  my  curiosity. 

[Sits  down  on  the  sofa. 

ERNEST.     Imagine  the  principal  personage,  one 
[6] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


who  creates  the  drama  and  develops  it,  who  gives  it 
life  and  provokes  the  catastrophe,  who,  broadly, 
fills  and  possesses  it,  and  yet  who  cannot  make  his 
way  to  the  stage. 

D.  JULIAN.  Is  he  so  ugly,  then?  So  repugnant 
or  bad? 

ERNEST.  Not  so.  Bad  as  you  or  I  may  be  — 
not  worse.  Neither  good  nor  bad,  and  truly  not  re- 
pugnant. I  am  not  such  a  cynic  —  neither  a  mis- 
anthrope, nor  one  so  out  of  love  with  life  as  to  fall 
into  such  unfairness. 

D.  JULIAN.     What,  then,  is  the  reason? 

ERNEST.  The  reason,  Don  Julian,  is  that  there  is 
no  material  room  in  the  scenario  for  this  personage. 

D.JULIAN.  Holy  Virgin!  What  do  you  mean?  Is 
it  by  chance  a  mythological  drama  with  Titans  hi  it? 

ERNEST.  Titans,  yes,  but  hi  the  modern  sense  of 
the  word. 

D.  JULIAN.    That  is  to  say ? 

ERNEST.  That  is  to  say,  this  person  is  ... 
everybody. 

D.  JULIAN.  Everybody!  You  are  right.  There 
is  no  room  for  everybody  on  the  stage.  It  is  an  in- 
controvertible truth  that  has  more  than  once  been 
demonstrated. 

[7] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


ERNEST.    Then  you  agree  with  me? 

D.  JULIAN.  Not  entirely.  Everybody  may  be 
condensed  in  a  few  types  and  characters.  This  is 
matter  beyond  my  depth,  but  I  have  always  under- 
stood that  the  masters  have  more  than  once  accom- 
plished it. 

ERNEST.  Yes,  but  in  my  case  it  is  to  condemn  me, 
not  to  write  my  drama. 

D.  JULIAN.    Why? 

ERNEST.  For  many  reasons,  it  would  be  difficult 
to  explain  —  above  all,  at  this  late  hour. 

D.  JULIAN.    Never  mind.     Give  me  a  few. 

ERNEST.  Look!  Each  individual  of  this  entire 
mass,  each  head  of  this  monster  of  a  thousand  heads, 
of  this  Titan  of  the  century,  whom  I  call  everybody, 
takes  part  in  my  play  for  a  flying  moment,  to  utter 
but  one  word,  fling  a  single  glance.  Perhaps  his 
action  in  the  tale  consists  of  a  smile,  he  appears  but 
to  vanish.  Listless  and  absent-minded,  he  acts  with- 
out passion,  without  anger,  without  guile,  often  for 
mere  distraction's  sake. 

D.  JULIAN.     What  then? 

ERNEST.  These  light  words,  these  fugitive  glances, 
these  indifferent  smiles,  all  these  evanescent  sounds, 
and  this  trivial  evil,  which  may  be  called  the 
[8] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


insignificant  rays  of  the  dramatic  light,  condensed 
to  one  focus,  to  one  group,  result  in  conflagration  or 
explosion,  in  strife,  and  in  victims.  If  I  represent  the 
whole  by  a  few  types  or  symbolical  personages,  I  be- 
stow upon  each  one  that  which  is  really  dispersed 
among  many,  and  such  a  result  distorts  my  idea.  I 
must  bring  types  on  the  stage  whose  guile  repels,  and 
is  the  less  natural  because  evil  in  them  has  no  object. 
This  exposes  me  to  a  worse  consequence,  to  the  ac- 
cusation of  meaning  to  paint  a  cruel,  corrupted,  and 
debased  society,  when  my  sole  pretention  is  to  prove 
that  not  even  the  most  insignificant  actions  are  in 
themselves  insignificant  or  lost  for  good  or  evil.  For, 
concentrated  by  the  mysterious  influences  of  mod- 
ern life,  they  may  reach  to  immense  effects. 

D.  JULIAN.  Say  no  more,  my  friend.  All  this 
is  metaphysics.  A  glimmer  of  light,  perhaps,  but 
through  an  infinitude  of  cloud.  However,  you  under- 
stand these  things  better  than  I  do.  Letters  of 
exchange,  shares,  stock,  and  discount,  now  —  that's 
another  matter. 

ERNEST.  No,  no;  you've  common  sense,  and 
that's  the  chief  thing. 

D.  JULIAN.    You  flatter  me,  Ernest. 

ERNEST.    But  you  follow  me? 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


D.  JULIAN.  Not  in  the  least.  There  ought  to 
be  a  way  out  of  the  difficulty. 

ERNEST.     If  that  were  all! 

D.  JULIAN.     What!    More? 

ERNEST.  Tell  me  what  is  the  great  dramatic 
spring? 

D.  JULIAN.  My  dear  fellow,  I  don't  exactly 
know  what  you  mean  by  a  dramatic  spring.  All  I 
can  tell  you  is  that  I  have  not  the  slightest  interest 
in  plays  where  love  does  not  preponderate  —  above 
all,  unfortunate  love,  for  I  have  enough  of  happy  love 
at  home. 

ERNEST.  Good,  very  good!  Then  hi  my  play 
there  can  be  little  or  no  love. 

D.  JULIAN.  So  much  the  worse.  Though  I  know 
nothing  of  your  play,  I  suspect  it  will  interest  no- 
body. 

ERNEST.  So  I  have  been  telling  you.  Never- 
theless, it  is  possible  to  put  in  a  little  love  —  and 
jealousy,  too. 

D.  JULIAN.  Ah,  then,  with  an  interesting  in- 
trigue skilfully  developed,  and  some  effective  situa- 
tions   

ERNEST.  No,  nothing  of  the  sort.  It  will  be  all 
simple,  ordinary,  almost  vulgar  ...  so  that 
[10] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


the  drama  will  not  have  any  external  action.  The 
drama  evolves  within  the  personages:  it  advances 
slowly :  to-day  takes  hold  of  a  thought,  to-morrow  of 
a  heart-beat,  little  by  little  undermines  the  will. 

D.  JULIAN.  But  who  understands  all  this?  How 
are  these  interior  ravages  manifested?  Who  re- 
counts them  to  the  audience?  In  what  way  are 
they  evident?  Must  we  spend  a  whole  evening 
hunting  for  a  glance,  a  sigh,  a  gesture,  a  single  word? 
My  dear  boy,  this  is  not  amusement.  To  cast  us 
into  such  depths  is  to  hurl  us  upon  philosophy. 

ERNEST.     You  but  echo  my  own  thought. 

D.  JULIAN.  I  have  no  wish  to  discourage  you. 
You  best  know  what  you  are  about  —  there. 
Though  the  play  seems  rather  colourless,  heavy, 
uninteresting,  perhaps  if  the  denoument  is  sensa- 
tional —  and  the  explosion  —  eh? 

ERNEST.  Sensation!  Explosion!  Hardly,  and 
that  only  just  upon  the  fall  of  the  curtain. 

D.  JULIAN.  Which  means  that  the  play  begins 
when  the  curtain  falls? 

ERNEST.  I  am  inclined  to  admit  it.  But  I  will 
endeavour  to  give  it  a  little  warmth. 

D.  JULIAN.  My  dear  lad,  what  you  have  to  do 
is  to  write  the  second  play,  the  one  that  begins  where 
[11] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


the  first  ends.  For  the  other,  according  to  your 
description,  would  be  difficult  to  write,  and  is  not 
worth  the  trouble. 

ERNEST.  "Pis  the  conclusion  I  have  come  to 
myself. 

D.  JULIAN.  Then  we  agree,  thanks  to  your  skill 
and  logic.  And  what  is  the  name? 

ERNEST.  That's  another  difficulty.  I  can  find 
none. 

D.  JULIAN.    What  do  you  say?    No  name  either? 

ERNEST.  No,  unless,  as  Don  Hermogenes1  says, 
we  could  put  it  into  Greek  for  greater  clarity. 

D.  JULIAN.  Of  a  surety,  Ernest,  you  were  dozing 
when  I  came  in.  You  have  been  dreaming  non- 
sense. 

ERNEST.  Dreaming!  yes.  Nonsense!  perhaps. 
I  talk  both  dreams  and  nonsense.  But  you  are  sen- 
sible and  always  right. 

D.  JULIAN.  In  this  case  it  does  not  require  much 
penetration.  A  drama  in  which  the  chief  personage 
cannot  appear;  in  which  there  is  hardly  any  love;  in 
which  nothing  happens  but  what  happens  every 
day;  that  begins  with  the  fall  of  the  curtain  upon  the 


1  A  pedant  in  Moratin's  Comedia  Nueva,  who  quotes  Greek 
incessantly  to  make  himself  better  understood. — Tran. 

[12] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


last  act,  and  which  has  no  name.  I  don't  know  how 
it  is  to  be  written,  still  less  how  it  is  to  be  acted,  how 
it  is  to  find  an  audience,  nor  how  it  can  be  called  a 
drama. 

ERNEST.  Nevertheless,  it  is  a  drama,  if  I  could 
only  give  it  proper  form,  and  that  I  can't  do. 

D.  JULIAN.     Do  you  wish  to  follow  my  advice? 

ERNEST.  Can  you  doubt  it?  —  you,  my  friend, 
my  benefactor,  my  second  father !  Don  Julian ! 

D.  JULIAN.  Come,  come,  Ernest,  don't  let  us 
drop  into  a  sentimental  drama  on  our  own  account 
instead  of  yours,  which  we  have  declared  impossible. 
I  asked  you  if  you  would  take  my  advice. 

ERNEST.     And  I  said  yes. 

D.  JULIAN.  Then,  leave  aside  your  plays.  Go 
to  bed,  rest  yourself,  and  come  out  shooting  with  me 
to-morrow.  Kill  a  few  partridges,  and  that  will  be  an 
excuse  for  your  not  killing  one  or  two  characters,  and 
not  exposing  yourself  to  the  same  fate  at  the  hands 
of  the  public.  After  all,  you  may  thank  me  for  it. 

ERNEST.  I'll  do  no  such  thing.  I  mean  to  write 
that  play. 

D.  JULIAN.  But,  my  poor  fellow,  you've  con- 
ceived it  in  mortal  sin. 

ERNEST.  I  don't  know,  but  it  is  conceived.  I 
[13] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


feel  it  stir  in  my  brain.     It  clamours  for  life,  and  I 
must  give  it  to  the  world. 

D.  JULIAN.     Can't  you  find  another  plot? 

ERNEST.    But  this  idea? 

D.  JULIAN.    Send  it  to  the  devil. 

ERNEST.  Ah,  Don  Julian,  you  believe  that  an 
idea  which  has  gripped  the  mind  can  be  effaced  and 
destroyed  at  pleasure.  I  want  to  think  out  another 
play,  but  this  accursed  idea  won't  give  it  room,  until 
it  itself  has  seen  the  light. 

D.  JULIAN.     God  grant  you  a  happy  delivery. 

ERNEST.    That's  the  question,  as  Hamlet  says. 

D.  JULIAN.  Couldn't  you  cast  it  into  the  literary 
foundling  hospital  of  anonymity?  [In  a  low  voice 
with  an  air  of  comical  mystery.] 

ERNEST.  Don  Julian,  I  am  a  man  of  conscience. 
Good  or  bad,  my  children  are  legitimate.  They 
bear  my  name. 

D.  JULIAN  [Preparing  to  go].  I  have  nothing 
more  to  say.  What  must  be  done  will  be  done. 

ERNEST.  I  wish  it  were  so.  Unfortunately,  it  is 
not  done.  But  no  matter;  if  I  don't  do  it,  somebody 
else  will. 

D.  JULIAN.    Then  to  work,  and  good  luck,  and 
may  nobody  rob  you  of  your  laurels. 
[14] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


SCENE  III 
ERNEST,  DON  JULIAN,  and  TEODORA. 

TEODORA    [Outside].    Julian,  Julian! 

D.  JULIAN.     It's  Teodora. 

TEODORA.     Are  you  there,  Julian? 

D.  JULIAN  [Going  to  the  door].  Yes,  I'm  here. 
Come  in. 

TEODORA     [Entering].     Good-evening,  Ernest. 

ERNEST.  Good-evening,  Teodora.  Was  the  sing- 
ing good? 

TEODORA.  As  usual;  and  have  you  been  working 
much? 

ERNEST.    As  usual;  nothing. 

TEODORA.  Then  you'd  have  done  better  to  come 
with  us.  They  all  asked  after  you. 

ERNEST.  It  seems  that  everybody  is  interested 
in  me. 

D.  JULIAN.  I  should  think  so,  since  everybody  is 
to  be  the  principal  personage  of  your  play.  You 
may  imagine  if  they  are  anxious  to  be  on  good  terms 
with  you. 

TEODORA.    A  play? 

D.  JULIAN.  Hush!  'Tis  a  mystery.  Ask  no 
questions.  Neither  title,  nor  characters,  nor  action, 
[15] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


nor  catastrophe  —  the  sublime!  Good-night,  Ernest. 
Come,  Teodora. 

ERNEST.    Adieu,  Don  Julian. 

TEODORA.    Till  to-morrow. 

ERNEST.     Good-night. 

TEODORA    [To  DON  JULIAN].     How  preoccupied 
Mercedes  was! 

D.  JULIAN.    And  Severe  was  in  a  rage. 

TEODORA.     Why,  I  wonder. 

D.  JULIAN.     How  do  I  know?    On  the  other  hand, 
Pepito  chattered  enough  for  both. 

TEODORA.     He  always  does,  and  nobody  escapes 
his  tongue. 

D.  JULIAN.     He's  a  character  for  Ernest's  play. 
Exeunt  TEODORA,  and  DON  JULIAN  by  right. 

SCENE  IV 

ERNEST.  Let  Don  Julian  say  what  he  will,  I 
won't  abandon  the  undertaking.  That  would  be 
signal  cowardice.  Never  retreat  —  always  forward. 
[Rises  and  begins  to  walk  about  in  an  agitated  way. 
Then  approaches  the  balcony.]  Protect  me,  night. 
In  thy  blackness,  rather  than  in  the  azure  clear- 
ness of  day,  are  outlined  the  luminous  shapes  of 
[16] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


inspiration.  Lift  your  roofs,  you  thousand  houses 
of  this  great  town,  as  well  for  a  poet  in  dire  necessity 
as  for  the  devil  on  two  sticks  who  so  wantonly  ex- 
posed you.  Let  me  see  the  men  and  women  enter 
your  drawing-rooms  and  boudoirs  in  search  of  the 
night's  rest  after  fevered  pleasures  abroad.  Let  my 
acute  hearing  catch  the  stray  words  of  all  those  who 
inquired  for  me  of  Don  Julian  and  Teodora.  As  the 
scattered  rays  of  light,  when  gathered  to  a  focus  by 
diaphanous  crystal,  strike  flame,  and  darkness  is 
forged  by  the  crossed  bars  of  shadow;  as  mountains 
are  made  from  grains  of  earth,  and  seas  from  drops  of 
water:  so  will  I  use  your  wasted  words,  your  vague 
smiles,  your  eager  glances,  and  build  my  play  of  all 
those  thousand  trivialities  dispersed  in  cafes,  at  re- 
unions, theatres,  and  spectacles,  and  that  float  now 
in  the  air.  Let  the  modest  crystal  of  my  intelligence 
be  the  lens  which  will  concentrate  light  and  shadow, 
from  which  will  spring  the  dramatic  conflagration 
and  the  tragic  explosion  of  the  catastrophe.  Al- 
ready my  play  takes  shape.  It  has  even  a  title  now, 
for  there,  under  the  lamp-shade,  I  see  the  immortal 
work  of  the  immortal  Florentine.  It  offers  me  in 
Italian  what  in  good  Spanish  it  would  be  risky  and 
futile  audacity  either  to  write  on  paper  or  pronounce 
[17] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


on  the  stage.  Francesca  and  Paolo,  assist  me  with 
the  story  of  your  loves!  [Sits  down  and  prepares 
to  ivrite.]  The  play  .  .  .  the  play  begins. 
.  .  .  First  page  —  there,  'tis  no  longer  white. 
It  has  a  name.  [Writing.]  THE  GREAT  GALEOTO. 
[Writes  feverishly.] 

END  OF  PROLOGUE 


[18] 


ACT  I 


ACT  I 

SCENE:  A  drawing-room  in  DON  JULIAN'S  house.  At 
the  back  of  the  stage  a  large  door,  and  beyond  a  pass- 
age, separating  it  from  the  dining-room  door,  which 
remains  closed  throughout  the  act;  on  the  left  a  bal- 
cony, and  beyond  it  a  door;  on  the  right  two  doors;  on 
the  stage  a  table,  an  armchair,  handsome  and  luxuri- 
ous mounting.  Hour,  toward  sunset. 

SCENE  I 

TEODORA  and  DON  JULIAN.  TEODORA  near  the 
balcony;  DON  JULIAN  seated  on  the  sofa,  lost  in 
thought. 

TEODORA.  What  a  lovely  sunset!  what  clouds 
and  light,  and  what  a  sky!  Suppose  it  were  true, 
as  the  poets  say,  and  our  fathers  believed,  that  our 
fate  is  stamped  upon  the  azure  heaven!  Were  the 
mysterious  secret  of  human  destiny  traced  by  the 
stars  upon  the  sapphire  sphere,  and  this  splendid 
evening  should  hold  the  cipher  of  ours,  what  happi- 
[211 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


ness  it  must  disclose!  what  a  smiling  future!  What 
a  life  in  our  life,  and  what  radiance  in  our  heaven! 
Is  it  not  so,  Julian?  [She  approaches  DON  JULIAN.] 
Ah,  plunged  in  thought,  I  see!  Come  and  look  out. 
What,  no  word  for  me? 

D.  JULIAN    [Absently].     What  is  it? 

TEODORA  [Coining  near].  You  have  not  been 
listening  to  me! 

D.  JULIAN.  You  have  my  heart  ever  —  who 
are  its  magnet  and  its  centre.  But  my  mind  is 
apt  to  be  besieged  by  preoccupations,  cares,  bus- 
iness   

TEODORA.  They  are  the  plague  of  my  life,  since 
they  rob  me,  if  not  of  my  husband's  affections,  at 
least  of  some  of  his  attention.  But  what  is  the  mat- 
ter, Julian?  [Affectionately.]  Something  worries 
you.  Is  it  serious,  that  you  are  so  solemn  and  so 
silent?  If  it  should  be  trouble,  Julian,  remember 
that  I  have  a  right  to  share  it.  My  joys  are  yours, 
and  your  sorrows  are  no  less  mine. 

D.  JULIAN.  Sorrows!  Troubles!  Are  you  not 
happy?  Do  I  not  possess  in  you  the  living  embodi- 
ment of  joy?  With  those  cheeks  so  ruddy  in  the 
glow  of  health,  and  those  dear  eyes,  clear  like  your 
soul  and  resplendent  as  the  sky, 'and  I  the  owner  of 
[22] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


all  you,  could  pain,  or  shadow,  or  grief  teach  me  I  am 
other  than  the  happiest  man  alive? 

TEODORA.     It  is  a  business  annoyance,  perhaps? 

D.  JULIAN.  Money  never  yet  forced  sleep  or 
appetite  to  forsake  me.  I  have  never  felt  aversion, 
much  less  contempt  for  it,  so  it  follows  that  the 
article  has  flowed  easily  into  my  coffers.  I  was  rich, 
I  am  rich;  and  until  Don  Julian  of  Gargarga  dies  of 
old  age,  please  God  and  his  own  good  fortune,  he  will 
remain,  if  not  the  wealthiest,  certainly  the  surest, 
banker  of  Madrid,  Cadiz,  and  Oporto. 

TEODORA.     Then  what  is  your  preoccupation? 

D.  JULIAN.  I  was  thinking  —  'tis  a  good  thought, 
too. 

TEODORA.     Naturally,  since  'tis  yours. 

D.  JULIAN.     Flatterer!  you  would  spoil  me. 

TEODORA.     But  I  am  still  unenlightened. 

D.  JULIAN.  There  is  an  important  matter  that  I 
want  to  achieve. 

TEODORA.    Connected  with  the  new  works? 

D.  JULIAN.  No;  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  stone 
or  iron. 

TEODORA.     What,  then? 

D.  JULIAN.  It  is  a  question  of  kindness  —  a 
sacred  debt  of  old  date. 

[23] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


TEODORA    [Gleefully].    Oh,  I  can  guess  now. 

D.  JULIAN.    So! 

TEODORA.    You  mean  Ernest. 

D.  JULIAN.    You  are  right. 

TEODORA.  Yes,  yes,  you  must.  Poor  lad!  He's 
so  good  and  noble  and  generous. 

D.  JULIAN.  Quite  his  father's  son  —  the  model 
of  a  loyal  hidalgo. 

TEODORA.  And  then  so  clever!  Only  twenty-six, 
and  a  prodigy!  What  doesn't  he  know? 

D.  JULIAN.  Know!  I  should  think  he  did  know. 
That's  nothing  —  rather,  that's  the  worst  of 
it.  While  he  is  wandering  in  the  sphere  of  sublime 
thought,  I  fear  he's  not  likely  to  learn  much  of  a 
world  so  deceptive  and  prosaic  as  ours,  which  takes 
no  interest  in  the  subtleties  of  the  mind  until  three 
centuries  after  genius  has  been  buried. 

TEODORA.  But  with  you  for  a  guide,  Julian  — 
you  don't  intend  to  abandon  him  yet  a  while, 
surely? 

D.  JULIAN.  God  forbid.  I  should  be  black- 
hearted indeed  if  I  would  so  readily  forget  all  I  owe 
his  father.  Don  Juan  of  Acedo  risked  for  my  family 
name  and  wealth,  ay,  almost  his  life.  Should  this 
lad  need  mine,  he  might  ask  it,  and  welcome. 
[24] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


'Twould  be  but  just  payment  of  the  debt  my  name 
represents. 

TEODORA.    Well  said,  Julian.    It  is  like  you. 

D.  JULIAN.  You  remember,  about  a  year  ago,  I 
heard  my  good  friend  was  dead,  and  his  son  was  left 
badly  off.  I  lost  no  time,  caught  the  train  to  Ger- 
ona,  nearly  used  force,  and  carried  the  boy  back 
here.  When  he  stood  in  the  midde  of  this  room  I 
said  to  him:  "You  are  master  here;  you  may  com- 
mand me  and  mine.  Since  I  owe  your  father  every- 
thing, you  must  regard  me  in  the  light  of  his  repre- 
sentative. If  I  fall  short,  my  desire  is  to  come  as 
near  as  possible  to  him.  As  for  the  amount  of  affec- 
tion I  have  to  dispose  of  —  we'll  see  if  I  don't  out- 
race  him  there." 

TEODORA.  I  remember  it  well.  The  soft-hearted 
fellow  burst  out  crying,  and  clung  to  you  like  a 
child. 

D.  JULIAN.  He's  but  a  child,  as  you  say.  That's 
why  we  must  think  and  plan  for  him.  And  'twas 
of  that  I  was  so  seriously  thinking  a  moment  ago.  I 
was  meditating  a  half-formed  project,  while  you, 
dear,  wanted  me  to  contemplate  a  panorama  of 
radiant  cloud,  and  scarlet  sun  that  cannot  compare 
with  the  sun  that  shines  in  my  own  heaven. 
[25] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


TEODORA.  I  cannot  divine  your  idea.  What  is  it 
you  project  doing  for  Ernest? 

D.  JULIAN.     Those  are  my  words. 

TEODORA.  But  is  there  something  yet  undone 
that  you  expect  to  discover?  He  has  lived  with  us 
for  the  past  year  like  one  of  ourselves.  Were  he 
your  son,  or  a  brother  of  mine,  could  you  show  him 
more  tenderness,  I  more  affection? 

D.  JULIAN.     It  is  much,  but  not  enough. 

TEODORA.     Not  enough !     I  fancy 

D.  JULIAN.  You  are  thinking  of  the  present,  and 
I  of  the  future. 

TEODORA.  Oh!  the  future!  That  is  easily  set- 
tled. See,  he  lives  here  with  us  as  long  as  he  likes, 
for  years.  It  is  his  home.  Then  when  the  just  and 
natural  law  prompts  him  to  fall  in  love  and  desire 
another,  we  will  marry  him.  You  will  nobly  share 
your  wealth  with  him,  and  we  will  lead  them  from 
the  altar  to  their  own  house  —  he  and  she.  The  prov- 
erb, you  know,  says  wisely,  "for  each  wedded  pair 
a  house."  He  will  live  just  a  little  away  from  us, 
but  that  will  be  no  reason  for  our  forgetting  him, 
or  loving  him  less.  I  see  it  all  distinctly.  They  are 
happy,  and  we  even  happier.  They  have  children, 
of  course,  and  we  perhaps  more  —  well,  at  least,  one 
[261 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


little  girl,  who  will  fall  in  love  with  Ernest's  son,  and 
to  whom  we  will  marry  her  by  and  by.  [Spoken 
playfully,  with  volubility,  grace,  blushes,  and  lively 
gestures,  according  to  the  actress'  talents.] 

D.  JULIAN.  But  where  in  heaven's  name  are  you 
going  to  stop?  [Laughing.] 

TEODORA.  You  spoke  of  his  future,  Julian,  and 
I've  sketched  it.  If  not  this  one,  I  will  neither  ap- 
prove nor  accept  it. 

D.  JULIAN.     How  like  you,  Teodora!  but 

TEOBOBA,     Ah,  there  is  a  but  already. 

D.  JULIAN.  Listen,  Teodora.  It  is  but  a  debt 
we  owe  to  look  after  the  poor  fellow  as  if  he  were  a 
relative,  and  obligation  runs  with  the  exactions  of 
our  affection.  So  much  for  himself,  so  much  for  his 
father's  son.  But  every  human  action  is  complex, 
has  two  points  of  view,  and  every  medal  has  its  re- 
verse. Which  means,  Teodora,  that  you  must 
understand  it  is  a  very  different  matter  to  give  and 
receive  favours;  and  that  in  the  end  Ernest  might 
feel  my  protection  a  humiliation.  He's  a  high- 
spirited,  fine  lad,  a  trifle  haughty  perhaps,  and  it  is 
imperative  that  there  should  be  an  end  to  his  present 
position.  We  may,  if  we  can,  do  more  for  him,  but 
we  must  seem  to  do  less. 

[271 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


TEODORA.    How  so? 

D.  JULIAN.    We'll  see —  but    here    he    comes. 
[Looks  down  the  stage.] 
TEODORA.    Hush! 

SCENE  II 
DON  JULIAN,  TEODORA,  and  ERNEST  behind. 

D.  JULIAN.    Welcome! 

ERNEST.  Don  Julian  —  and  Teodora!  [Salutes 
absently.  Sits  down  near  the  table  in  pensive  silence.] 

D.  JULIAN  [Approaching  him].  What's  the  mat- 
ter? 

ERNEST.    Nothing. 

D.  JULIAN.  You  look  as  if  something  ailed  you 
—  your  preoccupation  reveals  it.  No  trouble,  I 
hope? 

ERNEST.     Nonsense. 

D.  JULIAN.     Nor  disappointment? 

ERNEST.     None  whatever. 

D.  JULIAN.     I  don't  annoy  you? 

ERNEST.     You!  good  heavens!     [Rises  and  comes 

toward  him  effusively.]     You  speak  out  of  the  right  of 

friendship  and  affection,  and  you  read  me  through 

and  through.     Yes,  sir,  there  is  indeed  something 

[281 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


the  matter.  I  will  tell  you,  if  you,  and  you  also, 
Teodora,  out  of  your  pity,  will  hold  me  excused.  I 
am  an  ungrateful  fool,  a  mere  boy,  in  truth,  deserv- 
ing neither  of  your  kindness  nor  of  your  affection. 
Possessing  such  a  father  and  such  a  sister,  I  ought  to 
be  happy,  with  no  care  for  the  morrow.  But  it  is 
not  so.  I  blush  to  explain  it  —  can't  you  under- 
stand? Yes,  yes,  you  must  see  how  false  my  posi- 
tion is.  I  live  here  on  alms.  [With  energy.] 

TEODORA.     Such  a  word 

ERNEST.    Teodora! 

TEODORA.     Affronts  us. 

ERNEST.     I  expressed  myself  ill  —  but  it  is  so. 

D.  JULIAN.  I  say  it  is  not  so.  If  any  one  in  this 
house  lives  upon  alms,  and  those  no  slight  ones,  it  is 
I  and  not  you. 

ERNEST.  I  am  acquainted,  sir,  with  the  story  of 
two  loyal  friends,  and  of  some  money  matters  long 
forgotten.  It  does  honour  to  my  father  and  to  his 
hidalgic  race.  But  I  am  ashamed  in  profiting  by  it. 
I  am  young,  Don  Julian,  and  although  I  may  not  be 
worth  much,  there  ought  still  to  be  some  way  for  me 
to  earn  my  bread.  It  may  be  pride  or  folly.  I  can- 
not say.  But  I  remember  what  my  father  used  to 
say:  "What  you  can  do  yourself,  never  ask  another 
[29] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


to  do.  What  you  can  earn,  never  owe  to  any  one 
else." 

D.  JULIAN.  So  that  my  services  humiliate  and 
degrade  you.  You  count  your  friends  importu- 
nate creditors. 

TEODORA.  Reason  may  be  on  your  side,  Ernest, 
and  in  knowledge  you  are  not  deficient,  but,  believe 
me,  in  this  case  the  heart  alone  speaks  with  wisdom. 

D.  JULIAN.  Your  father  did  not  find  me  so  un- 
generous or  so  proud. 

TEODORA.  Ah,  friendship  was  then  a  very  dif- 
ferent thing. 

ERNEST.    Teodora! 

TEODORA  [To  DON  JULIAN].  What  a  noble 
anxiety  he  displays! 

ERNEST.  I  know  I  seem  ungrateful  —  I  feel  it 
—  and  an  idiot  to  boot.  Forgive  me,  Don  Julian. 

D.  JULIAN.    His  head  is  a  forge. 

TEODORA  [Also  apart  to  DON  JULIAN].  He 
doesn't  live  in  this  world. 

D.  JULIAN.  Just  so.  He's  full  of  depth  and 
learning,  and  lets  himself  be  drowned  hi  a  pool  of 
water. 

ERNEST  [Meditatively],  True,  I  know  little  of 
life,  and  am  not  well  fitted  to  make  my  way  through 
[30] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


it.  But  I  divine  it,  and  shudder,  I  know  not  why. 
Shall  I  founder  on  the  world's  pool  as  upon  the  high 
sea?  I  may  not  deny  that  it  terrifies  me  far  more 
than  the  deep  ocean.  The  sea  only  reaches  the 
limit  set  by  the  loose  sand:  over  all  space  travel  the 
emanations  of  the  pool.  A  strong  man's  arms  can 
struggle  with  the  waves  of  the  sea,  but  no  one  can 
struggle  against  subtle  miasma.  But  if  I  fall,  I 
must  not  feel  the  humiliation  of  defeat.  I  wish  and 
pray  that  at  the  last  moment  I  may  see  the  approach 
of  the  sea  that  will  bear  m'e  away  at  its  will;  see  the 
sword  that  is  to  pierce  me,  the  rock  against  which  I 
am  to  be  crushed.  I  must  measure  my  adversary's 
strength,  and  despise  it  falling,  despise  it  dying,  in- 
stead of  tamely  breathing  the  venom  scattered 
through  the  ambient  air. 

D.  JULIAN    [To  TEODORA].     Didn't  I  tell  you  he 
was  going  out  of  his  mind? 

TEODORA.     But,  Ernest,  where  are  you  wander- 
ing? 

D.  JULIAN.     Yes.     What  has  all  this  to  do  with 
the  matter? 

ERNEST.     Sir,  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
others,  seeing  me  housed  and  fed  here,  are  saying  of 
me  what  I  long  have  thought.    They  see  me  con- 
[31] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


stantly  driving  out  with  you,  in  the  morning  walking 
with  Teodora  or  Mercedes,  in  your  opera-box,  hunt- 
ing on  your  lands,  and  daily  occupying  the  same 
place  at  your  table.  Though  you  would  like  to  think 
otherwise,  in  one  way  or  another  the  gossip  runs: 
Who  is  he?  Is  he  a  relation?  Not  so.  The  secre- 
tary? Still  less.  A  partner?  If  a  partner,  it  may 
be  accepted  he  brings  little  or  nothing  to  the  general 
fund.  So  they  chatter. 

D.  JULIAN.     By  no  means.     You  are  raving. 

ERNEST.     I  beg  to  contradict  you. 

D.  JULIAN.     Then  give  me  a  name. 

ERNEST.     Sir 

D.  JULIAN.     One  will  do. 

ERNEST.     There  is  one  at  hand  —  upstairs. 

D.  JULIAN.     Name  him. 

ERNEST.    Don  Severe. 

D.  JULIAN.     My  brother? 

ERNEST.  Exactly,  your  brother.  Will  that  suf- 
fice? or  shall  we  add  his  respected  wife,  Dona  Mer- 
cedes? and  Pepito,  their  son?  What  have  you  to  say. 
then? 

D.  JULIAN.  That  Severe  is  a  fool,  Mercedes  an 
idle  chatterer,  and  the  lad  a  puppy. 

ERNEST.    They  only  repeat  what  they  hear. 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


D.  JULIAN.  It  is  not  true.  This  is  false  reason- 
ing. Between  gentlemen,  when  the  intention  is 
honourable,  what  can  the  opinion  of  the  world 
really  matter?  The  meaner  it  is,  the  loftier  our  dis- 
dain of  it. 

ERNEST.  'Tis  nobly  said,  and  is  what  all  well- 
bred  men  feel.  But  I  have  been  taught  that  gossip, 
whether  inspired  by  malice  or  not,  which  is  accord- 
ing to  each  one's  natural  tendency,  begins  in  a  lie  and 
generally  ends  in  truth.  Does  gossip,  as  it  grows, 
disclose  the  hidden  sin?  Is  it  a  reflex  of  the  past,  or 
does  it  invent  evil  and  give  it  existence?  Does  it  set 
its  accursed  seal  upon  an  existent  fault,  or  merely 
breed  that  which  was,  yet  not,  and  furnish  the  occas- 
ion for  wrong?  Should  we  call  the  slanderer  in- 
famous or  severe?  the  accomplice  or  the  divulger? 
the  public  avenger  or  the  tempter?  Does  he  arrest 
or  precipitate  our  fall?  wound  through  taste  or  duty? 
and  when  he  condemns,  is  it  from  justice  or  from 
spite?  Perhaps  both,  Don  Julian.  Who  can  say? 
though  time,  occasion,  and  facts  may  show. 

D.  JULIAN.   See  here,  Ernest,  I  don't  understand  an 

iota  of  all  this  philosophizing.     I  presume  'tis  on  such 

nonsense  you  waste  your  intelligence.     But  I  don't 

want  you  to  be  vexed  or  worried.     It's  true  —  you 

[881 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


really  wish  for  austere  independence,  to  stand  alone 
at  a  post  of  honour? 

ERNEST.     Don  Julian! 

D.  JULIAN.     Answer  me. 

ERNEST     [Joyously].     Yes. 

D.  JULIAN.  Then  count  it  gained.  At  this  very 
moment  I  have  no  secretary.  I  am  expecting  one 
from  London.  But  nobody  would  suit  me  better 
than  a  certain  young  fool,  who  is  enamoured  of  pov- 
erty. [Speaks  in  pleasant  reproach.]  His  work  and 
salary  will,  of  course,  be  settled  as  any  one  else's, 
though  he  be  a  son  to  one  who  cherishes  him  as 
such. 

ERNEST.    Don  Julian! 

D.  JULIAN  [Affecting  comical  severity].  Remem- 
ber, I  am  an  exacting  business  man,  and  I  have  not 
the  habit  of  giving  my  money  away  for  nothing.  I 
intend  to  get  as  much  as  possible  out  of  you,  and 
work  you  hard.  In  my  house  the  bread  of  just 
labour  alone  is  consumed.  By  the  clock,  ten  hours, 
starting  at  daybreak,  and  when  I  choose  to  be  severe, 
you  will  see  that  Severo  himself  is  no  match  for  me. 
So,  before  the  world,  you  pose  as  the  victim  of  my 
selfishness  .  .  .  but  in  private,  dear  boy,  ever 
the  same,  the  centre  of  my  dearest  affections.  [Un- 
[34] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


able  to  maintain  the  former  tone,  DON  JULIAN  breaks 
off,  and  holds  his  hand  out  to  ERNEST.] 

ERNEST     [Deeply  moved].     Don  Julian! 

D.  JULIAN.     You  accept,  then? 

ERNEST.     I  am  yours  to  command. 

TEODORA  [To  DON  JULIAN].  At  last  you  have 
tamed  the  savage. 

ERNEST  [To  DON  JULIAN].  Anything  for  your 
sake. 

D.  JULIAN.  So  would  I  have  you  always,  Ernest. 
And  now  I  have  to  write  to  my  London  correspond- 
ent, and  thank  him,  and  while  recognizing  the 
extraordinary  merit  of  his  Englishman,  whom  he  ex- 
tols to  the  skies,  regret  that  I  have  already  engaged  a 
young  man.  [Walks  toward  the  first  door  on  the  right 
hand.]  This  is  how  we  stand  for  the  present;  but  in 
the  future  —  it  will  be  as  partners.  [Returns  with  an 
air  of  mystery.] 

TEODORA.  Stop,  Julian,  I  beg  of  you.  Can't 
you  see  that  he  will  take  alarm?  [DoN  JULIAN  goes 
out  on  the  right,  and  laughs  to  himself,  looking  back  at 
ERNEST.] 

SCENE  III 

TEODORA  and  ERNEST.     Toward  the  end  of  the  last 
[35] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


scene  twilight  has  fallen,  so  that  at  this  moment  the 
room  is  in  deep  shadow. 

ERNEST.  I  am  dazed  by  so  much  kindness.  How 
can  I  ever  repay  it?  [He  sits  down  on  the  sofa,  dis- 
playing great  emotion.  TEODORA  walks  over  and  stands 
beside  him.] 

TEODORA.  By  ejecting  the  spirit  of  pride  and  dis- 
trust; by  being  sensible  and  believing  that  we  truly 
love  you,  that  we  will  never  change;  and  by  putting 
full  faith  in  all  Julian's  promises.  His  word  is 
sacred,  Ernest,  and  in  him  you  will  always  have  a 
father,  in  me  a  sister. 

SCENE  IV 

TEODORA,  ERNEST,  DONA  MERCEDES,  and  DON 
SEVERO.  The  latter  remains  standing  behind  as  they 
enter.  The  room  is  quite  dark,  save  for  a  glimmer  of 
light  shed  from  the  balcony,  whither  ERNEST  and 
TEODORA  have  moved. 

ERNEST.    How  good  you  are! 
TEODORA.    And  you,  what  a  boy!    After  to-day 
I  hope  you  have  done  with  sadness  —  eh? 
ERNEST.     Quite. 

MERCEDES  [Outside,  speaking  low].  How  dark  it  is! 
[36] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


D.  SEVERO  [In  same  tone].  Come  away, 
Mercedes. 

MERCEDES  [Crossing  the  threshold].  There  is  no- 
body here. 

D.  SEVERO  [Detaining  her].  Yes,  there  is.  [Both 
stand  a  while  peering.] 

ERNEST.  Teodora,  my  whole  life,  a  thousand 
lives  would  still  not  be  enough  to  offer  you  in  return 
for  your  kindness.  Don't  judge  me  by  my  morose 
temper.  I  cannot  lend  a  showy  front  to  my  affec- 
tions, but,  believe  me,  I  do  know  how  to  love  —  and 
hate  as  well.  My  heart  can  beat  to  bursting  under 
the  lash  of  either  sentiment. 

MERCEDES    [  To  SEVERO]  .     What  are  they  saying  ? 

D.  SEVERO.  Something  odd,  but  I  hear  imper- 
fectly. [TEODORA  and  ERNEST  go  out  on  the  balcony, 
speaking  low.] 

MERCEDES.     'Tis  Ernest. 

D.  SEVERO.     And  she  —  I  suppose  —  is 

MERCEDES.    Teodora. 

D.  SEVERO.  Their  eternal  tricks  —  always  to- 
gether. I  can  stand  no  more  of  this.  And  their 
words?  I  mustn't  put  it  off  any  longer 

MERCEDES.     True,  Severe.     Come  away.     It  is 
certainly  your  duty,  since  everybody  is  talking. 
137] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


D.  SEVERO.  Yes,  I  must  open  Julian's  eyes  — 
to-day,  at  once. 

MERCEDES.  The  fellow  has  impudence  enough, 
and  to  spare. 

D.  SEVERO.     By  all  that's  holy  —  so  has  she. 

MERCEDES.  Poor  girl!  She's  but  a  child. 
Leave  her  to  me. 

TEODORA.  Another  house?  Surely  no.  You 
wouldn't  leave  us?  What  an  idea!  Julian  would 
never  consent. 

D.  SEVERO  [  To  DONA  MERCEDES] .  I  should  think 
not  indeed,  neither  would  I.  [Aloud.}  Ah,Teodora,  you 
didn't  see  me  ?  This  is  how  you  receive  your  guests. 

TEODORA  [Coming  from  the  balcony],  Don  Se- 
vero!  I  am  delighted. 

MERCEDES.  Is  there  no  dinner  this  evening?  It's 
near  the  hour. 

TEODORA.     Mercedes,  too! 

MERCEDES.    Yes,  Teodora. 

D.  SEVERO  [Aside].  She  is  a  capital  actress. 
What  a  creature! 

TEODORA.  I  must  ring  for  lights.  [Touches  the 
bell  on  the  table.] 

D.  SEVERO.  Quite  so.  Every  one  likes  plenty  of 
light. 

[38] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


SERVANT.     Madam? 

TEODORA.     Bring  the  lamps,  Genaro. 

[Exit  servant. 

D.  SEVERO.  He  who  follows  the  narrow  path  of 
loyalty  and  duty,  and  is  always  that  which  he  ap- 
pears to  be,  need  never  fear  the  light,  nor  blush  in  its 
glare. 

[The  servant  enters  with  lamps,  the  stage 
is  brilliantly  illuminated.  After  a 
pause.] 

TEODORA  [Laughing  naturally].  So  I  should 
think,  and  such,  I  imagine,  is  the  general  opinion. 
[Looks  at  MERCEDES.] 

MERCEDES.     I  suppose  so. 

D.  SEVERO.  Hulloa,  Don  Ernest!  what  were  you 
doing  out  there?  Were  you  with  Teodora  when  we 
came  in?  [Speaks  with  marked  intention.] 

ERNEST     [Coldly],     I  was  here  as  you  see. 

D.  SEVERO.  The  deuce  you  were!  It  is  rather 
dark  to  see.  [Approaches  him  with  outstretched  hand, 
looking  fixedly  at  him.  TEODORA  and  MERCEDES 
converse  apart.  Aside.]  His  face  is  flushed,  and  he 
appears  to  have  been  crying.  In  this  world  only 
children  and  lovers  weep.  [Aloud.]  And  Julian? 

TEODORA.     He  went  away  to  write  a  letter. 
[391 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


ERNEST  [Aside].  Though  I  have  patience  to 
spare,  this  man  tries  me  hard. 

D.  SEVERO  [To  TEODORA].  I  am  going  to  see 
him.  There  is  still  time  before  dinner? 

TEODORA.     Plenty. 

D.  SEVERO.  Good.  Then  to  work.  [Aside,  rub- 
bing his  hands,  and  looking  back  at  ERNEST  and  TEO- 
DORA. Aloud.]  Good-bye. 

TEODORA.     Good-bye. 

D .  SEVERO   [Rancorously,  from  the  door] .   My  faith ! 

SCENE  V 

TEODORA,  DONA  MERCEDES,  and  ERNEST.    The  ladies 
occupy  the  sofa,  and  ERNEST  stands  n  ar   them. 

MERCEDES  [To  ERNEST].  We  did  not  see  you 
to-day. 

ERNEST.     No,  madam. 

MERCEDES.    Nor  Pepito? 

ERNEST.    No. 

MERCEDES.     He  is  upstairs  alone. 

ERNEST     [Aside].     Let  him  stop  there. 

MERCEDES  [Gravely  and  mysteriously  to  TEO- 
DORA]. I  wish  he  would  go.  I  want  to  speak  to  you. 

TEODORA.     Indeed? 

[40] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


MERCEDES  [In  same  tone].  Yes,  it  is  something 
very  serious. 

TEODORA.     Well,  begin! 

MERCEDES.     Why  doesn't  he  go? 

TEODORA  [In  a  low  voice].  I  don't  understand 
you. 

MERCEDES.  Courage!  [Takes  her  hand  and 
clasps  it  affectionately.  TEODORA  looks  at  her  in 
sombre  question.]  Send  him  about  his  business. 

TEODORA.  If  you  insist.  Ernest,  will  you  do  me 
a  favour? 

ERNEST.     Gladly  —  with  a  thousand  wills. 

MERCEDES     [Aside].     One  were  still  too  many. 

TEODORA.  Then  go  upstairs  —  to  Pepito  —  but 
it  might  bore  you  to  carry  a  message. 

ERNEST.     By  no  means. 

MERCEDES  [Aside].  In  what  a  sweet,  soft  voice 
he  speaks  to  her! 

TEODORA.  Tell  him  —  ask  him  if  he  has  renewed 
our  subscription  at  the  opera  as  I  told  him.  He 
knows  about  it. 

ERNEST.     With  pleasure  —  this  very  moment. 

TEODORA.    Thanks,  Ernest,  I  am  sorry 

ERNEST.    Nonsense.  [Exit. 

TEODORA.    Adieu! 

[41] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


SCENE  VI 
TEODORA  and  DONA  MERCEDES. 

TEODORA.     Something  serious?     You  alarm  me, 
Mercedes.     Such  mystery!     What  can  it  mean? 

MERCEDES.     It  is  indeed  very  serious. 

TEODORA.     Concerning  whom? 

MERCEDES.     All  of  you. 

TEODORA.     All  of  us? 

MERCEDES.  Julian,  Ernest,  and  you. 

TEODORA.     All  three? 

MERCEDES.     Yes,  all  three.     [Short  pause.     Both 
women  stare  at  each  other.] 

TEODORA.     Then  make  haste. 

MERCEDES     [Aside],    I  should  like  to but,  no ; 

I  must  go  gently  in  this  unsavoury  affair.  [Aloud.] 
Listen,  Teodora.  My  husband  is,  after  all,  your 
husband's  brother,  and  in  life  and  death  our  for- 
tunes are  one.  So  that  we  owe  one  another  in  all 
things  protection,  help,  and  advice  —  is  it  not  so? 
To-day  it  may  be  I  who  offer  assistance,  and  to- 
morrow, should  I  need  it,  I  unblushingly  claim  it  of 
you. 

TEODORA.     You  may  count  upon  it,  Mercedes. 
But  come  to  the  end  of  the  matter  now. 
[42] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


MERCEDES.  Up  to  to-day,  Teodora,  I  shrank 
from  this  step,  but  Severo  urges  me.  "It  can't  go 
on,"  he  insists.  "My  brother's  honour  and  my  own 
self-esteem  forbid  me  to  witness  that  which  fills  me 
with  shame  and  sorrow.  On  all  sides  am  I  assailed 
with  innuendoes,  with  the  smiles,  and  covert  glances, 
and  the  reproaches  of  my  friends.  There  must  be 
an  end  to  this  low  gossip  about  us." 

TEODORA.     Continue,  pray. 

MERCEDES.  Then  heed  me.  [They  exchange  a 
prolonged  gaze.] 

TEODORA.     Tell  me,  what  is  the  gossip? 

MERCEDES.  The  murmuring  of  the  river  tells  us 
that  its  waters  are  swollen. 

TEODORA.  I  understand  nothing  of  your  river 
and  its  swollen  waters,  but  do  not  drive  me  wild. 

MERCEDES  [Aside].  Poor  child!  My  heart 
grieves  for  her.  [Aloud.]  So  you  do  not  understand 
me? 

TEODORA.     I?    Not  in  the  least. 

MERCEDES  [Aside].  How  stupid  she  is!  [Aloud, 
energetically.]  You  make  a  laughing-stock  of  him. 

TEODORA.    Of  whom? 

MERCEDES.    Why,  of  your  husband,  of  course. 

TEODORA  [Impetuously,  rising],  Julian!  what  a 
[43] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


falsehood!  What  wretch  could  say  so?  Julian 
would  strike  him! 

MERCEDES  [Endeavouring  to  soothe  her  and  make 
her  sit  down].  He  would  need  a  good  many  hands, 
then;  for,  if  report  speak  truly,  he  would  have  to 
strike  the  entire  town. 

TEODORA.  But  what  does  it  all  mean?  What  is 
the  mystery,  and  what  is  this  talk  of  the  town? 

MERCEDES.     So  you're  sorry? 

TEODORA.     I  am  sorry.     But  what  is  it? 

MERCEDES.  You  see,  Teodora,  you  are  quite  a 
child.  At  your  age  one  is  so  often  thoughtless  and 
light,  and  then  such  bitter  tears  are  afterward  shed. 
You  still  don't  understand  me? 

TEODORA.  No,  what  has  such  a  case  to  do  with 
me? 

MERCEDES.  It  is  the  story  of  a  scoundrel  and  the 
story  of  a  lady 

TEODORA     [Eagerly].     Whose  name ? 

MERCEDES.     Her  name 

TEODORA.     Oh,  what  does  it  matter? 

[TEODORA  moves  away  from  MERCEDES. 
who  shifts  her  seat  on  the  sofa  to  follow 
her.     The  double  movement  of  repug- 
nance and  aloofness  on  TEODORA'S 
[44] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


part,  and  of  insistence  and  protection 
on  MERCEDES',  is  very  marked.] 
MERCEDES.    The  man  is  a  shabby-hearted  be- 
trayer, who,  for  one  hour  of  pleasure,  would  thrust 
upon  the  woman  a  life  of  sorrow:  the  husband's  dis- 
honour, the  ruin  of  a  family,  and  she  left  shamed  and 
condemned  to  social  penitence  in  the  world's  dis- 
dain, and  to  keener  punishment  still  at  the  whip  of 
her  own  conscience. 

[Here  TEODORA,  avoiding    MERCEDES, 

reaches  the  edge  of  the  sofa,  bows  her 

head  and  covers  her  face  with  both 

hands.      At  last    she    understands.] 

MERCEDES    [Aside].      Poor    little    thing!     She 

touches  me.     [Aloud.]     This  man  is  not  worthy  of 

you,  Teodora. 

TEODORA.  But,  madam,  what  is  the  drift  of  all 
this  blind  emotion?  Do  not  imagine  that  my  eyes 
are  dimmed  with  fear  or  horror  or  tears.  They  burn 
with  the  flame  of  anger.  To  whom  can  such  words 
be  addressed?  What  man  do  you  mean?  Is  it, 

perchance ? 

MERCEDES.    Ernest. 

TEODORA.    Ah!    [Pause.]    And   the   woman   I? 
Not  so?    [MERCEDES  nods  and  TEODORA  rises  again.] 
[45] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


Then  listen  to  me,  though  I  may  offend  you.  I 
know  not  who  is  the  viler,  the  inventor  of  this  tale 
or  you  who  repeat  it.  Shame  upon  the  meanness  that 
formed  the  idea,  and  shame  upon  the  villainy  that 
spreads  it!  It  is  so  abominable,  so  fatal,  that  I  al- 
most feel  myself  criminal  because  I  cannot  instantly 
reject  the  thought  and  forget  it.  Heavens!  Could 
I  suppose  or  credit  such  baseness?  Because  of  his 
misfortunes  I  loved  him.  He  was  like  a  brother  to 
me,  and  Julian  was  his  providence.  And  he  so  noble 
and  thorough  a  gentleman!  [Stands  staring  at  MER- 
CEDES, then  turns  away  her  face.  Aside.]  How  she 
inspects  me!  I  scarcely  like  to  say  a  good  word  for 
him  to  her.  My  God!  I  am  compelled  already  to 
act  a  part. 

MERCEDES.     Be  calm,  child. 

TEODORA  [Raising  her  voice].  Oh,  what  anguish! 
I  feel  cold  and  inconsolable.  Stained  in  this  way 
by  public  opinion!  Oh,  my  dearest  mother,  and 
you,  Julian,  my  heart's  beloved.  [She  falls  sobbing 
into  a  chair  on  the  left,  and  MERCEDES  strives  to  console 
her.] 

MERCEDES.  I  did  not  imagine  —  forgive  me  — 
don't  cry.  There,  I  didn't  really  believe  it  was  seri- 
ous. I  knew  your  past  exonerated  you.  But  as 
[46] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


the  case  stands,  you  must  admit  that  out  of  every 
hundred  a  hundred  would  accuse  you  and  Julian  of 
excessive  rashness,  or  say  you  had  led  the  world  to 
conclude  the  worst.  You  a  girl  of  twenty,  Julian  a 
man  of  forty,  and  Ernest  between  you,  with  his  head 
full  of  romantic  thoughts.  On  the  one  hand,  a  hus- 
band given  up  to  business,  on  the  other  a  youth  to 
dreams,  every  day  bringing  its  opportunity,  and  you 
there,  unoccupied,  in  the  flush  of  romance.  It  was 
wrong  for  people  to  conclude  the  worst  because  they 
saw  you  walking  with  him,  and  saw  him  so  often  at 
the  theatre  with  you.  But,  Teodora,  in  reason  and 
justice  I  think  that,  if  the  world  was  bent  on  seeing 
evil,  you  furnished  the  occasion.  Permit  me  to  point 
out  to  you  that  the  fault  which  society  most  fiercely 
chastises,  pursues  most  relentlessly  and  cruelly,  and 
in  every  varied  imaginable  way,  both  in  man  and 
woman  is  —  don't  frown  so,  Teodora  —  is  temerity. 

TEODORA  [Turning  to  MERCEDES  without  having 
heard  her}.  And  you  say  that  Julian 

MERCEDES.  Is  the  laughing-stock  of  the  town, 
and  you  — 

TEODORA.  Oh,  I!  That's  no  matter.  But 
Julian!  —  Oh,  oh,  so  good,  so  chivalrous!  If  he 
only  knew  — 

[471 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


MERCEDES.  He  will  know,  for  at  this  very  mo- 
ment Severe  is  telling  him. 

TEODORA.     What! 

JULIAN     [Inside].     That  will  do. 

TEODORA.     Oh,  goodness! 

JULIAN.     Let  me  alone. 

TEODORA.     Come  away,  quickly. 

MERCEDES  [Rushing  with  TEODORA  toward  first 
door  on  the  right].  Yes,  yes,  quickly.  What  folly! 
[TEODORA  and  MERCEDES  go  to  the  right.} 

TEODORA  [Stopping  suddenly].  But  wherefore, 
since  I  am  not  guilty?  Not  only  does  miserable 
calumny  stain  us,  but  it  degrades  us.  It  is  so  steeped 
in  evil,  that,  against  all  evidence,  its  very  breath 
takes  the  bloom  off  our  consciences.  Why  should 
an  idle  terror  cast  its  mean  influence  over  me? 

[At  this  moment  DON  JULIAN  appears  on 
the  threshold  of  the  first  door  on  the  right 
hand  side,  and  behind  him  stands  DON 
SEVERO.] 

TEODORA.     Julian! 

D.  JULIAN.  Teodora!  [She  runs  over  to  him,  and 
he  folds  her  in  a  passionate  embrace.]  Here  in  my 
arms,  dearest.  It  is  the  home  of  your  honour. 

[48] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


SCENE  VII 

TEODORA,  DONA  MERCEDES,  DON  JULIAN,  and  DON 
SEVERO.  DON  JULIAN  and  DONA  MERCEDES 
form  the  centre  group. 

D.  JULIAN.  Let  it  pass  for  this  once,  but,  please 
God!  there's  an  end  of  it.  Whoever  in  future  shall 
stain  this  face  with  tears  [pointing  to  TEODORA],  I 
swear,  and  mean  it,  will  never  again  cross  the  thresh- 
old of  my  house  —  though  he  should  be  my  own 
brother.  [Pause.  DON  JULIAN  soothes  and  comforts 
TEODORA.] 

D.  SEVERO.     I  only  mentioned  common  report. 

D.  JULIAN.     Infamous! 

D.  SEVERO.     It  may  be  so. 

D.  JULIAN.     It  is. 

D.  SEVERO.  Well,  let  me  tell  you  what  every  one 
says. 

D.  JULIAN.     Filth!  abominable  lies. 

D.  SEVERO.    Then    repeating    them 

D.  JULIAN.  'Tis  not  the  way  to  put  an  end  to 
them.  [Pause.] 

D.  SEVERO.    You  are  wrong. 

D.  JULIAN.  Right  —  more  than  right.  A  fine 
[49] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


thing  it  would  be  if  I  let  you  carry  the  mire  of  the 
street  into  my  drawing-room ! 

D.  SEVERO.     But  I  will  do  so. 

D.  JULIAN.     You  shall  not. 

D.  SEVERO.    You  bear  my  name. 

D.  JULIAN.     Enough. 

D.  SEVERO.     And  your  honour 

D.  JULIAN.    Remember  that  you  are  in  my  wife's 
presence.     [Pause.] 

D.  SEVERO     [In  a  low  voice  to  DON  JULIAN].     If 
our  father  saw  you 

D.  JULIAN.     What  do  you  mean,  Severe? 

MERCEDES.     Hush!    Here  is  Ernest. 

TEODORA    [Aside],    How  dreadful!    If  he  should 

know 

[TEODORA  turns  away  her  face,  and 
holds  her  head  bent.  DON  JULIAN 
looks  at  her  questioningly.] 

SCENE  VIII 

TEODORA,  DONA  MERCEDES,  DON  JULIAN,  DON  SEV- 
ERO, ERNEST  and  PEPITO,  grouped  from  left  to 
right.  On  entering,  PEPITO  stands  on  DON  JULIAN'S 
side  and  ERNEST  walks  over  to  TEODORA. 

ERNEST    [Looking  at  DON  JULIAN  and  TEODORA. 
[501 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


Aside].  He  and  she!  It  is  no  illusion.  Can  it  be 
what  I  feared?  what  that  fool  told  me.  [Referring  to 
PEPITO,  who  at  that  moment  enters  behind.]  It  was 
not  his  invention. 

PEPITO  [Staring  strangely  about].  My  saluta- 
tions to  all,  and  good  appetite  —  as  it  is  dinner-time. 
Here  are  the  tickets,  Teodora.  Don  Julian 

TEODORA.  Thanks,  Pepito.  [Accepts  them  me- 
chanically.] 

ERNEST  [To  DON  JULIAN  in  a  low  voice].  What's 
the  matter  with  TEODORA. 

D.  JULIAN.     Nothing. 

ERNEST  [In  same  tone].  She  is  pale,  and  has 
been  crying. 

D.  JULIAN  [Angrily].  Don't  busy  yourself  about 
my  wife.  [Pause.  DON  JULIAN  and  ERNEST  ex- 
change glances.] 

ERNEST  [Aside].  The  wretches!  They've  com- 
pleted their  work. 

PEPITO  [In  a  low  voice  to  his  mother,  pointing  to 
ERNEST].  He  ought  to  have  a  strait-jacket.  I 
quizzed  him  about  Teodora.  Poof !  Ton  my  word, 
I  thought  he'd  kill  me. 

ERNEST  [Aloud,  with  resolution  and  sadness]. 
Don  Julian,  I  have  thought  over  your  generous  offer, 
[51] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


and  much  as  I've  already  abused  your  kindness,  it 
goes  sorely  against  me  to  refuse  it  now.  But,  sir,  I 
feel  that  I  ought  to  reject  this  post  you  offer  me. 

D.  JULIAN.     Why? 

ERNEST.  Because  I  am  so  fashioned  —  a  poet 
and  a  dreamer.  My  father,  sir,  trained  me  for  no 
career.  I  want  to  travel;  I  am  restless  and  liable  to 
revolt.  I  am  not  capable  of  settling  down  like  an- 
other. Like  a  new  Columbus,  I  am  bitten  by  the 
spirit  of  adventure.  But  we  will  appeal  to  Don 
Severo.  He  will  decide  if  I  am  right. 

D.  SEVERO.  You  speak  like  the  book  of  wisdom 
and  like  a  man  of  sense.  I  have  been  thinking  as 
you  do  for  a  long  while. 

D.  JULIAN.  Since  when  have  you  felt  this  itch 
for  new  worlds  and  travel?  When  did  you  make  up 
your  mind  to  leave  us?  And  the  means?  —  where 
are  they? 

D.  SEVERO.  He  wants  to  go  away  —  to  some 
place  more  to  his  taste  than  here.  To  be  just,  Julian, 
the  rest  is  your  affair.  Give  him  as  much  as  he 
wants,  too,  for  this  is  no  time  for  economy. 

ERNEST  [To  DON  SEVERO].  I  don't  traffic  with 
dishonour,  nor  receive  alms.  [Pause.]  Well,  it 
must  be  so;  and  as  our  parting  would  be  a  sad  one  — 
[52] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


for  in  this  life,  who  knows?  I  may  never  come  back, 
and  may  not  see  them  again  —  it  is  better  that  we 
should  shake  hands  now,  here,  Don  Julian,  and  have 
it  over.  Thus  we  snap  the  tie,  and  you  forgive  my 
selfishness.  [Deeply  moved.] 

D.  SEVERO  [Aside],  How  they  stare  at  one 
another! 

TEODORA    [Aside],    What  a  noble  fellow! 

ERNEST  [To  DON  JULIAN].  Why  do  you  with- 
hold your  hand?  It  is  our  last  adieu,  Don  Julian. 
[Goes  toward  him  with  outstretched  hands.  DON 
JULIAN  embraces  him.] 

D.  JULIAN.  No,  lad.  The  question  well  con- 
sidered, this  is  neither  the  first  nor  the  last.  It  is 
the  cordial  embrace  of  two  honourable  men.  You 
must  not  mention  your  mad  project  again. 

D.  SEVERO.     Then  he  is  not  going  away  ? 

D.  JULIAN.  Never!  I  have  not  the  habit  of 
changing  my  mind  or  the  plans  I  have  matured  be- 
cause of  a  boy's  caprice  or  a  madman's  folly.  And  I 
have  still  less  intention  of  weakly  subjecting  my  ac- 
tions to  the  town's  idle  gossip. 

D.  SEVERO.     Julian! 

D.  JULIAN.     Enough.     Dinner  is  served. 

ERNEST.     Father,  I  cannot 

[53] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


D.  JULIAN.     But  what  if  I  believe  you  can?     Or 
does  my  authority  begin  to  bore  you? 

ERNEST.     I  beg  you 

D.  JULIAN.     Come,  dinner  is  ready.     Give  your 
arm  to  Teodora,  and  take  her  in. 

ERNEST     [Looking  at  her,  but  holding  back].     To 
Teodora! 

TEODORA     [With  a  similar  emotion],     Ernest! 
D.  JULIAN.    Yes,  as  usual. 

[There  is  a  movement  of  uncertainty  on 

both  sides;  finally  ERNEST  approaches 

and   TEODORA    takes   his   arm,    but 

neither  dares  to  look  at  the  other,  and 

both  are  abrupt  and  violently  agitated.] 

D.  JULIAN    [ToPEprro].    And  you!    The  deuce, 

why  don't  you  offer  your  arm  to  your  mother?     My 

good  brother  Severo  will  take  mine.     So,  quite  a 

family  party,  and  now  let  pleasure  flow  with  the  wine 

in  our  glasses.     So  there  are  gossips  about?     Well,  let 

them  chatter  and  scream.    A  farthing  for  all  they  can 

say.     I  shouldn't  object  to  a  glass  house,  that  they 

might  have  the  pleasure  of  staring  in  at  Teodora  and 

Ernest  together,  and  learn  how  little  I  care  for  their 

spite  and  their  calumnies.     Each  man  to  his  fancy. 

[Enter  servant  in  black  suit  and  white  tie. 

[541 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


SERVANT.     Dinner  is  served. 

[The  dining-room  door  opens  and  dis- 
plays a  well-appointed  table.] 
D.  JULIAN.     Let  us  look  after  our  life,  since  it  will 
be  the  affair  of  others  to  look  after  our  death.    Come. 
[Invites  the  others  to  pass.] 
TEODORA.     Mercedes. 
MERCEDES.     Teodora. 
TEODORA.     I  pray  you,  Mercedes. 

[DONA  MERCEDES  passes  in  with  PEPITO 
and  takes  her  place  at  the  table. 
ERNEST  and  TEODORA  stand  plunged 
in  thought,  ERNEST  looking  anx- 
iously at  her.] 

D.  JULIAN     [Aside].     He  is  looking  at  her,  and 
there  are  tears  in  her  eyes. 

[TEODORA,  walking  unsteadily  and 
struggling  with  emotion,  slowly  follows 
the  others  inside.] 

D.  JULIAN    [To  SEVERO].     Are  they  talking  to- 
gether? 

D.  SEVERO.     I  don't  know,  but  I  think  it  very 
probable. 

D.  JULIAN.     Why  are  they  looking  back  at  us? 
Both!     Did  you  notice?     I  wonder  why. 
[551 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


D.  SEVERO.  You  see,  you  are  growing  reasonable 
at  last! 

D.  JULIAN.  No,  I've  caught  your  madness.  Ah, 
how  sure  a  thing  is  calumny !  It  pierces  straight  to 
the  heart. 


[56] 


ACT  II 


ACT  II 

SCENE  represents  a  small  room  almost  poorly  furnished. 
Door  at  the  end,  on  the  right  another  door,  and  on  the 
left  a  balcony.  A  bookcase,  a  table,  an  armchair, 
on  the  table  DON  JULIAN'S  portrait  in  a  frame,  beside 
it  an  empty  frame;  both  small  and  alike;  on  the  table  an 
unlighted  lamp,  the  "Divina  Commedia,"  open  at 
the  Francesca  episode,  and  close  to  a  morsel  of  burnt 
paper.  Papers  scattered  about,  and  the  MS.  of  a 
play.  A  few  chairs.  Time,  day. 

SCENE  I 
Enter  DON  JULIAN,  DON  SEVERO  and  servant  below. 

D.  SEVERO.     Don  Ernest  is  out? 

SERVANT.     Yes,  sir.     He  went  out  early. 

D.  SEVERO.     No  matter.     We'll  wait.     I  suppose 
he  will  be  in  sooner  or  later. 

SERVANT.     I  should  think  so.     Nobody  could  be 
more  punctual  than  he. 

D.  SEVERO.    That  will  do. 
[591 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


SERVANT.  Certainly,  sir.  If  you  want  anything, 
you'll  find  me  downstairs.  [Exit  servant. 

SCENE  II 
DON  JULIAN  and  DON  SEVERO. 

D.  SEVERO     [Looking  round].     How  modest! 

D.  JULIAN.     Poor  is  a  better  word. 

D.  SEVERO.  What  a  lodging!  [Opens  the  door 
and  peeps  in.]  An  alcove,  this  study,  and  an  outer 
room  —  and  that's  all. 

D.  JULIAN.  And  thereby  hangs  the  devil's  own 
tale  of  human  ingratitude,  of  bastard  sentiment,  of 
miserable  passions,  and  of  blackguard  calumny. 
And  whether  you  tell  it  quickly  or  at  length,  there's 
never  an  end  to  it. 

D.  SEVERO.     It  is  the  work  of  chance. 

D.  JULIAN.  Not  so,  my  dear  fellow.  It  was 
the  work  of  —  well,  I  know  whom. 

D.  SEVERO.     Meaning  me? 

D.  JULIAN.  Yes,  you  as  well.  And  before  you 
the  empty  pated  idlers  whom  it  behoved  to  busy 
themselves  shamelessly  about  my  honour  and  my 
wife's.  And  I,  coward,  mean,  and  jealous,  I  let 
the  poor  fellow  go,  despite  my  evidence  of  his  up- 
[60] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


right  nature.  I  responded  to  his  nobler  conduct  by 
black  ingratitude.  Yes,  ingratitude.  You  see  my 
ostentatious  wealth,  the  luxury  of  my  surroundings, 
and  equipages,  and  the  credit  of  my  firm.  Well,  do 
you  know  where  all  that  comes  from? 

D.  SEVERO.     I  have  quite  forgotten. 

D.  JULIAN.  Justly  said  —  forgotten!  Such  is  the 
natural  reward  of  every  generous  action,  of  every 
unusual  impulse  that  prompts  one  man  to  help  an- 
other quietly,  without  a  flourish  of  trumpet  or  self- 
advertisement  —  just  for  friendship's  or  for  honesty's 
sake. 

D.  SEVERO.  You  are  unjust  to  yourself.  To 
such  an  excess  have  you  pushed  gratitude,  that  you 
have  almost  sacrificed  honour  and  fortune  to  it. 
What  more  could  be  expected  —  even  of  a  saint? 
There's  a  limit  to  all  things,  go^d  and  evil.  He  is 
proud  and  obstinate,  and,  however  much  you  may 
oppose  him,  'tis  none  the  less  a  fact  that  he's  his  own 
master.  If  he  chooses  to  leave  your  palace  in  a  fit 
of  despair,  for  this  shanty  —  'tis  his  right.  I  admit, 
my  dear  boy,  that  it's  very  sad  —  but  then,  who 
could  have  prevented  it? 

D.  JULIAN.  The  world  in  general,  if  it  would 
mind  its  own  business  instead  of  tearing  and  rending 
[61] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


reputations  by  the  movement  of  its  tongue  and  the 
sign  of  its  hand.  What  did  it  matter  to  the  public 
if  we,  fulfilling  a  sacred  duty,  treated  Ernest,  I  as  a 
son,  and  Teodora  as  a  brother?  Is  it  reason  enough 
to  assume  the  worst,  and  trumpet  scandal  because  a 
fine  lad  sits  at  my  table,  walks  out  with  my  wife,  and 
has  his  seat  in  my  opera-box?  Is  by  chance  impure 
love  the  sole  supreme  bond  between  man  and  woman 
in  this  world  of  clay?  Is  there  no  friendship,  grati- 
tude, sympathy,  esteem,  that  youth  and  beauty 
should  only  meet  in  the  mire?  And  even  supposing 
that  the  conclusion  of  the  fools  was  the  right  one,  is 
it  their  business  to  avenge  me?  I  have  my  own  eyes  to 
look  after  my  own  affairs,  and  to  avenge  my  wrongs 
have  I  not  courage,  steel,  and  my  own  right  hand? 

D.  SEVERO.  Well,  accepting  that  outsiders  were 
wrong  to  talk,  did  you  expect  me,  who  am  of  your 
blood  and  bear  your  name,  to  hold  my  tongue? 

D.  JULIAN.  By  heavens,  no!  But  you  should 
have  been  more  careful.  You  might  have  told  me 
alone  of  this  sorry  business,  and  not  have  set  flame 
to  a  conflagration  under  my  very  roof. 

D.  SEVERO.  I  erred  through  excess  of  affection, 
I  admit.  But  while  I  confess  that  the  world  and  I 
have  done  the  mischief  —  it  by  inventing  the  situa- 
[62] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


tion,  and  I  by  weakly  crediting,  and  by  giving  voice 
to  the  shabby  innuendoes  —  you,  Julian  [approaches 
him  and  speaks  vyith  tender  interest],  have  nothing  to 
reproach  yourself  with.  You  have  the  consolation 
of  having  acted  throughout  as  a  gentleman. 

D.  JULIAN.  I  cannot  so  easily  console  myself, 
while  my  heart  gives  shelter  to  that  same  story  which 
my  lips  and  my  intelligence  reject.  I  indignantly 
turn  away  from  the  world's  calumny,  and  to  myself 
I  say:  "What  if  it  should  be  no  lie:  if  perchance  the 
world  should  be  right?  "  So  I  stand  in  strife  between 
two  impulses,  sometimes  judge,  sometimes  accom- 
plice. This  inward  battle  wears  me  out,  Severe. 
Doubt  increases  and  expands,  and  my  heart  groans, 
while  before  my  bloodshot  vision  stretches  a  red- 
dened field. 

D.  SEVERO.    Delirium! 

D.  JULIAN.  No,  'tis  not  raving.  You  see,  I  bare 
myself  to  you  as  a  brother.  Think  you  Ernest 
would  have  left  my  house  if  I  had  firmly  stood  in  his 
way  and  opposed  his  crossing  the  threshold?  If  so, 
why  does  a  traitorous  voice  keep  muttering  in  my 
disturbed  consciousness:  "  'twere  wise  to  leave  the 
door  open  to  his  exit,  and  lock  it  well  afterward,  for 
the  confiding  man  is  but  a  poor  guardian  of  honour's 
[631 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


fortress."  In  my  heart  I  wish  what  my  lips  deny. 
"Come  back,  Ernest,"  aloud,  and  to  myself  "do  not 
come  back,"  and  while  I  show  him  a  frank  front,  I  am 
a  hypocrite  and  a  coward,  watchful  and  worn  with 
mistrust.  No,  Severe,  this  is  not  to  act  like  an  hon- 
est man.  [He  drops  into  the  armchair  beside  the  table 
in  deep  dejection.] 

D.  SEVERO.  It  is  how  any  husband  would  act 
who  had  a  beautiful  young  wife  to  look  after,  espec- 
ially one  with  a  romantic  temperament. 

D.  JULIAN.  Don't  speak  so  of  Teodora.  She  is 
a  mirror  that  our  breath  tarnishes  by  any  imprudent 
effort  to  bring  it  to  our  level.  It  gave  back  the 
sun's  pure  light  before  the  million  vipers  of  the  earth 
gathered  to  stare  at  it.  To-day  they  crawl  within 
the  glass  in  its  divine  frame,  but  they  are  insub- 
stantial shadows.  My  hand  can  wave  them  away, 
and  once  more  you  will  see  the  clear  blue  of  heaven. 

D.  SEVERO.     All  the  better. 

D.  JULIAN.     No,  not  so. 

D.  SEVERO.     Then  what  the  deuce  do  you  want? 

D.  JULIAN.     Oh,  so  much.     I  told  you  that  this 

inward  struggle  of  which  I  spoke  is  changing  me  to 

another  man.     Now  my  wife  finds  me  always  sad, 

always  distant.     I  am  not  the  man  I  was,  and  no 

[641 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


effort  will  ever  make  me  so  again.  Seeing  me  so 
changed,  she  must  ask,  "Where  is  Julian?  this  is  not 
my  dear  husband;  what  have  I  done  to  forfeit  his 
confidence,  and  what  shabby  feeling  causes  this 
aloofness?"  a  shadow  lies  between  us,  ever  deepening, 
and  slowly,  step  by  step,  we  move  more  apart.  None 
of  the  old  dear  confidence,  none  of  the  old  delightful 
talks;  smiles  frozen,  tones  embittered,  in  me  through 
unjust  resentment,  in  her  through  tearful  grief  —  I, 
wounded  in  my  love,  and  she,  by  my  hand,  wounded 
in  her  woman's  dignity.  There's  how  we  stand. 

D.  SEVERO.  Then  you  stand  upon  the  verge  of 
perdition.  If  you  see  your  position  so  plainly,  why 
don't  you  remedy  it? 

D.  JULIAN.  'Tis  of  no  use.  I  know  I  am  unjust 
to  doubt  her,  nay,  worse  still.  I  don't  doubt  her 
now.  But  who  will  say  that,  I  losing  little  by  little, 
and  he  gaining  as  steadily,  the  lie  of  to-day  will  not 
to-morrow  be  truth?  [He  seizes  DON  SEVERO  by  the 
arm,  and  speaks  vrith  voluble  earnestness  and  increasing 
bitterness.]  I,  jealous,  sombre,  unjust  and  hard,  he, 
noble  and  generous,  resigned  and  unalterably  sweet- 
natured,  with  that  halo  of  martyrdom  which,  in  the 
eyes  of  women,  sits  so  becomingly  on  the  brow  of  a 
brave  and  handsome  youth.  Is  it  not  clear  that  his 
[65] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


is  the  better  part,  and  that  my  loss  is  his  gain?  while 
I  can  do  nothing  to  alter  the  injustice  of  it.  You 
see  it,  too?  And  if  the  ignoble  talk  of  the  town 
should  compel  those  two  to  treason,  though  they 
may  now  truthfully  assert:  "we  are  not  lovers,"  the 
force  of  repetition  of  the  word  may  eventually  drive 
them  to  the  fact. 

D.  SEVERO.  If  that's  how  you  feel  about  it, 
Julian,  I  think  the  safest  thing  would  be  to  let  Ernest 
carry  out  his  project. 

D.  JULIAN.    That  I've  come  to  prevent. 

D.  SEVERO.  Then  you  are  insane.  He  purposes 
to  go  to  Buenos  Ayres.  Nothing  could  be  better. 
Let  him  go  —  in  a  sailing  vessel,  fresh  wind  to  his 
sail,  and  good  speed. 

D.  JULIAN.  Do  you  wish  me  to  show  myself  so 
miserably  ungrateful  and  jealous  before  Teodora? 
Don't  you  know,  Severe,  that  a  woman  may  despise 
a  lover  and  love  him  still,  but  not  so  a  husband? 
Contempt  is  his  dishonour.  You  would  not  have 
my  wife  follow  the  unhappy  exile  across  the  ocean 
with  sad  regrets?  And  I,  should  I  see  the  trace  of 
a  tear  upon  her  cheek,  the  mere  thought  that  it 
might  be  for  Ernest  would  drive  me  to  strangle  her  in 
my  arms.  [Speaks  with  rancour  and  rage.] 
[661 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


D.  SEVERO.     What  is  it  then  you  do  want? 

D.  JULIAN.  I  must  suffer.  The  care  of  unravel- 
ling the  knot  belongs  to  the  world  that  conceived  the 
drama  solely  by  looking  at  us  —  so  fertile  is  its  glance 
for  good  and  ill. 

D.  SEVERO  [Moving  back],  I  think  somebody  is 
coming. 

SERVANT  [From  without,  not  seen  on  the  stage}. 
Don  Ernest  cannot  be  much  later.  [Enter  PEPITO. 

SCENE  III 
DON  JULIAN,  DON  SEVERO,  and  PEPITO. 

D.  SEVERO.     You  here? 

PEPITO  [Aside}.  By  Jove,  I  see  they  know  all 
about  it.  [Aloud.}  We  are  all  here.  How  do  you 
do,  uncle?  How  do,  father?  [Aside.}  Easy.  They 
know  what's  in  the  wind.  [Aloud.}  What  brings 
you?  —  but  I  suppose  you  are  looking  for  Ernest. 

D.  SEVERO.     What  else  could  bring  us  here? 

D.  JULIAN.  I  daresay  you  know  what  this  mad- 
man is  up  to? 

PEPITO.  What  he's  up  to!  Well,  yes  —  rather. 
I  know  as  much  as  another. 

D.  SEVERO.     And  it's  to-morrow? 
[671 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


PEPITO.  No,  to-morrow  he  is  going  away,  so  it 
must  be  to-day. 

D.  JULIAN    [Surprised].    What  do  you  say? 

PEPITO.  That's  what  Pepe  Uceda  told  me  last 
night  at  the  club.  He  is  Nebreda's  second,  so  he 
ought  to  know.  But  why  do  you  stare  so  oddly? 
Didn't  you  know 

D.  JULIAN  [Hastily  covering  his  brother's  move- 
ment]. Everything. 

D.  SEVEBO.     We 

D.  JULIAN  [Aside].  Hold  your  tongue,  Severe. 
He  starts  to-morrow  and  to-day  he  stakes  his  life  — 
and  we  are  here,  of  course,  to  prevent  both,  the  duel 
and  the  departure.  [DON  JULIAN  makes  it  evident 
that  he  is  only  sounding  Pepito's  knowledge  of  facts,  and 
that  he  is  only  aware  of  the  pending  departure.] 

D.  SEVERO.     What  duel? 

D.  JULIAN  [Aside  to  SEVERO].  I  know  nothing 
about  it,  but  I  shall  presently. 

PEPITO  [Aside].  Come,  I  haven't  been  such  a 
duffer  after  all. 

D.  JULIAN  [Speaking  with  an  air  of  certainty]. 
We  know  there  is  a  viscount 

PEPITO.    Yes. 

D.  JULIAN.  With  whom  Ernest  proposes  to  fight 
[68] 


—  a  certain  trustworthy  person  has  informed  us, 
who  was  at  once  apprised  of  it.     They  say  'tis  a 
serious  matter  [PEPITO  nods],  a  disgraceful  quarrel,  in 
the  presence  of  several  witnesses  [PEPITO  nods  again] 

—  the  lie  direct,  and  a  deluge  of  bad  language!  - 
PEPITO     [Interrupts  excitedly,  glad  of  his  more  ac- 
curate  information].     Language    indeed!  —  a    blow 
bigger  than  a  monument. 

D.  SEVERO.     On  which  side? 

PEPITO.     Ernest  struck  the  viscount. 

D.  JULIAN.  Of  course  Ernest  struck  the  viscount. 
I  thought  you  knew  that,  Severe.  The  viscount  in- 
sulted him.  Patience  is  not  the  lad's  strong  point 

—  hence  the  blow. 
PEPITO.     Exactly. 

D.  JULIAN  [Confidently],  I  told  you  we  knew 
the  whole  story.  [Then  anxiously,]  The  affair  is 
serious? 

PEPITO.  Most  serious.  I  don't  like  discussing  it, 
but  since  you  know  so  much,  there  is  no  need  for 
further  mystery. 

D.  JULIAN.     None    whatever.     [He    approaches 
PEPITO  eagerly,] 

PEPITO     [After  a  pause,  adopts  an  ominous  air  to 
announce  bad  news].     It  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death. 
[69] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


[Looks  around  triumphantly.  DON  JULIAN  and  DON 
SEVERO  start.]  The  viscount  is  neither  a  chicken  nor 
a  skulk.  He  can  handle  a  sword. 

D.  JULIAN.  And  the  quarrel?  What  was  it? 
Nebreda  is  supposed  to  be 

PEPITO.  It  was  hardly  a  quarrel.  I'll  tell  you 
the  facts.  [Both  men  draw  near  eagerly.]  Ernest, 
you  know,  means  to  leave  Madrid  to-morrow,  and 
take  passage  in  the  Cid  lying  in  Cadiz.  Luiz  Al- 
caraz  had  promised  him  a  letter  of  introduction,  and 
the  poor  fellow  went  off  to  meet  him  at  the  cafe  and 
get  it,  with  the  best  of  intentions.  Luiz  wasn't  there 
so  he  waited.  Some  of  the  frequenters  of  Alcaraz's 
table,  who  did  not  know  him,  were  in  the  full  swing 
of  glorious  slander,  and  did  not  notice  his  clenched 
teeth.  A  name  mentioned  meant  a  reputation 
blasted.  Broad-handed,  ready-tongued,  every  liv- 
ing soul  passed  in  their  review.  In  this  asylum  of 
charity,  in  the  midst  of  more  smoke  than  an  express 
train  emits,  between  lifted  glass  and  dropped  cigar- 
ette ashes,  with  here  and  there  a  lump  of  sugar,  the 
marble  was  converted  for  the  nonce  into  a  dissecting- 
table:  each  woman  was  dishonoured,  another  glass 
of  the  old  tap:  a  shout  of  laughter  for  each  tippler's 
cut.  In  four  clippings  these  lads  left  reputations 
[70] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


ragged  and  the  ladies  rent  to  tatters.  Yet  what  did 
it  all  come  to?  They  but  echoed  society  at  a  cafe- 
table.  I  don't  say  all  this  for  myself,  nor  think  it, 
but  'twas  how  Ernest  spoke  when  he  recounted  the 
quarrel  to  me. 

D.  JULIAN.     Well,  make  an  end  of  it. 

PEPITO.  The  end  of  it  is,  that  between  name  and 
name,  there  was  mention  of  one  that  Ernest  could 
not  endure.  "Who  dares  to  ridicule  an  honourable 
man?"  he  shouts.  Somebody  retorts:  "a  lady,"  and 
names  a  woman.  His  head  was  instantly  on  fire, 
and  he  flings  himself  upon  Nebreda.  The  poor  vis- 
count fell  like  a  ninepin,  and  there  you  have  an 
Agramante's  camp.  The  day's  business  is  now  a 
duel  —  in  a  room  somewhere  —  I  don't  know  where. 

D.  JULIAN     [Seizing  his  arms].     The  man  was  I! 

PEPITO.    Sir? 

D.  JULIAN.  And  Teodora  the  woman?  How 
have  we  fallen  —  she,  myself,  our  love?  [Sits  down 
and  covers  his  face  with  both  hands.] 

D.  SEVERO.  What  have  you  done,  you  block- 
head! 

PEPITO.  Didn't  he  say  he  knew  all  about  it?  and 
I  naturally  believed  him. 

D.  JULIAN.     Dishonoured,  dishonoured! 
[71] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


D.  SEVERO  [Approaching  him],  Julian,  my  dear 
fellow. 

D.  JULIAN.  It  is  true.  I  ought  to  be  calm,  I 
know.  But  what  heart  can  I  have  when  faith  is 
gone?  [Seizes  his  brother's  hand.]  Just  heaven! 
Why  are  we  so  disgraced?  What  reason  have  they 
to  turn  and  throw  mud  at  us?  No  matter.  I  know 
my  duty  as  a  gentleman.  I  can  count  on  you, 
Severe? 

D.  SEVERO.  On  me?  Till  death,  Julian.  [They 
shake  hands  cordially.] 

D.  JULIAN    [To  PEPITO].    The  duel? 

PEPITO.     For  three  o'clock. 

D.JULIAN  [A  side].  I'll  kill  him — yes,  kill  him. 
Come.  [To  SEVERO.] 

D.  SEVERO.     Whither? 

D.  JULIAN.     To  look  for  this  viscount. 

D.  SEVERO.     Do  you  mean ? 

D.  JULIAN.  I  mean  to  do  what  I  ought  and  can 
to  avenge  myself  and  save  Don  Juan  of  Acedo's  son. 
Who  are  the  seconds?  [To  PEPITO.] 

PEPITO.     Alcaraz  and  Rueda. 

D.  JULIAN.  I  know  them  both.  Let  him  stay 
here  [pointing  to  PEPITO],  so  that  in  the  event  of 

Ernest's  return 

[72] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


D.  SEVERO.     Of  course. 

D.  JULIAN  [To  PEPITO].  Without  arousing  his 
suspicion,  find  out  where  the  duel  takes  place. 

D.  SEVERO.    You  hear. 

D.  JULIAN    [To  his  brother].     Come. 

SEVERO.     What's  the  matter  with  you,  Julian? 

D.  JULIAN.  'Tis  a  long  while  since  I've  felt  so 
overjoyed.  [Catches  SEVERO'S  arm  feverishly.] 

D.  SEVERO.  The  deuce!  overjoyed!  You're  be- 
side yourself. 

D.  JULIAN.     I  shall  meet  that  fellow. 

D.  SEVERO.     Nebreda? 

D.  JULIAN.  Yes.  Observe,  until  to-day  cal- 
umny was  impalpable.  There  was  no  seizing  its 
shape.  I  have  now  discovered  it,  and  it  has  taken  a 
human  form.  There  it  is  at  hand,  in  the  person  of  a 
viscount.  Swallowing  blood  and  gall  for  the  past 
three  months  —  the  devil!  —  and  now  —  fancy,  face 
to  face  —  he  and  I ! 

[Exeunt  DON  JULIAN  and  DON  SEVERO. 

SCENE  IV 

PEPITO.  Well,  here  we  are  in  a  nice  fix,  and  all  for 
nothing!  However,  in  spite  of  my  uncle's  belief,  it 
was  little  short  of  madness  to  leave  a  resplendent 

[73] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


creature  under  the  same  roof,  and  in  continual  con- 
tact with  a  handsome  fellow  like  Ernest,  with  a  soul 
on  fire,  or  given  to  romanticism.  He  swears  there's 
nothing  in  it,  and  that  his  feeling  for  her  is  pure 
affection,  that  he  loves  her  like  a  sister,  and  that  my 
uncle  is  a  father  to  him.  But  I  am  a  sly  fox,  and, 
young  as  I  am,  I  know  a  thing  or  two  of  this  work. 
I've  no  faith  in  this  sort  of  relations,  when  the 
brother  is  young  and  the  sister  is  beautiful,  and 
brotherhood  between  them  is  fiction.  But  suppose  it 
were  as  he  says,  all  square.  What  do  outsiders 
know  about  that?  Nobody  is  under  any  obligation 
to  think  the  best  of  his  fellows.  The  pair  are  seen 
everywhere  together,  and,  seeing  them,  haven't  their 
neighbours  a  right  to  talk?  No,  swears  Ernest.  We 
hardly  ever  went  out  alone.  Once,  perhaps?  That's 
enough.  If  a  hundred  persons  saw  them  on  that 
occasion,  it  is  quite  the  same  as  if  they  had  been  seen 
in  public  a  hundred  times.  Good  Lord!  How  are 
you  going  to  confront  all  the  witnesses  to  prove 
whether  it  was  once  or  often  they  chose  to  give  an 
airing  to  this  pure  sympathy  and  brotherly  love? 
'Tis  absurd  —  neither  just  nor  reasonable.  What 
we  see  we  may  mention  —  'tis  no  lie  to  say  it. 
"I  saw  them  once,"  says  one,  "and  I,"  another. 
[74] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


One  and  one  make  two.  "And  I  also"  —  that 
makes  three.  And  then  a  fourth,  and  a  fifth,  and 
so,  summing  which,  you  soon  enough  reach  infinity. 
We  see  because  we  look,  and  our  senses  are  there  to 
help  us  to  pass  the  time,  without  any  thought  of  our 
neighbour.  He  must  look  out  for  himself,  and 
remember  that,  if  he  shuns  the  occasion,  calumny  and 
peril  will  shun  him.  [Pause.]  And  take  notice  that 
I  admit  the  purity  of  the  affection,  and  this  makes  it 
so  serious  a  matter.  Now,  in  my  opinion,  the  man 
who  could  be  near  Teodora,  and  not  fall  in  love  with 
her,  must  be  a  stone.  He  may  be  learned  and  philo- 
sophical, and  know  physics  and  mathematics,  but 
he  has  a  body  like  another,  and  she's  there  with  a 
divine  one,  and,  body  of  Bacchus!  that's  sufficient 
to  found  an  accusation  on.  Ah!  if  these  walls 
could  speak.  If  Ernest's  private  thoughts,  scattered 
here,  could  take  tangible  form!  By  Jove!  what's 
this?  An  empty  frame,  and  beside  it  Don  Julian's 
likeness  in  its  fellow.  Teodora  was  there,  the  pen- 
dant of  my  respected  uncle.  Why  has  she  dis- 
appeared? To  avoid  temptation?  [Sits  down  at  the 
table.]  If  that's  the  reason  —  it's  bad.  And  still 
worse  if  the  portrait  has  left  its  frame  for  a  more 
honourable  place  near  his  heart.  Come  forth,  sus- 
[75] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


pected  imps  that  float  about,  and  weave  invisible 
meshes.  Ruthlessly  denounce  this  mystic  philo- 
sopher. [Looks  about  the  table  and  sees  the  open  Dante.] 
Here's  another.  I  never  come  here  but  I  find  this 
divine  book  open  on  Ernest's  table.  The  Divine 
Comedy!  His  favourite  poem,  and  I  note  that  he 
seems  never  to  get  beyond  the  Francesca  page.  I 
conceive  two  explanations  of  the  fact.  Either  the 
fellow  never  reads  it,  or  he  never  reads  any  other.  But 
there's  a  stain,  like  a  tear-drop.  My  faith!  what 
mysteries  and  abysses!  And  what  a  difficult  thing 
it  is  to  be  married  and  live  tranquilly.  A  paper 
half  burnt  —  [picks  it  up] —  there's  still  a  morsel 
left. 

[Goes  over  to  the  balcony  trying  to  read  it. 
At  this  moment  ERNEST  enters,  and 
stands  watching  him.] 

SCENE  V 
PEPITO  and  ERNEST. 

ERNEST.     What  are  you  looking  at? 

PEPITO.     Hulloa!     Ernest.   Only  a  paper  I  caught 
on  the  wing.     The  wind  blew  it  away. 

ERNEST     [Takes  it  and  returns  it  after  a  short  in- 
spection].    I  don't  remember  what  it  is. 
[76] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


PEPITO.  Verses.  You  may  remember  [reads  with 
difficulty].  "The  flame  that  consumes  me."  [Aside.] 
Devora  rhymes  with  Teodora. 

ERNEST.     It  is  nothing  important. 

PEPITO.     No,  nothing.     [Throws  away  the  paper.] 

ERNEST.  That  worthless  bit  of  paper  is  a  symbol 
of  our  life  —  a  few  sobs  of  sorrow,  and  a  little  flake 
of  ashes. 

PEPITO.     Then  they  were  verses? 

ERNEST.  Yes.  When  I've  nothing  better  to  do, 
sometimes  —  my  pen  runs  away  with  me  —  I  write 
them  at  night. 

PEPITO.  And  to  prick  enthusiasm,  and  get  into 
harness,  you  seek  inspiration  in  the  master's  book. 

ERNEST.     It  would  seem 

PEPITO.  Say  no  more.  Tis  truly  a  gigantic  work. 
The  episode  of  Francesca.  [Pointing  to  the  page.] 

ERNEST  [Ironically  and  impatiently].  You  can't 
guess  wrong  to-day. 

PEPITO.  Not  entirely,  by  Jove!  Here,  where  the 
book  is  open,  I  find  something  I  can't  guess,  and 
you  must  explain  it  to  me.  Reading  a  love-tale 
together  to  pass  the  time,  we  are  told  that  Fran- 
cesca and  Paolo  reached  that  part  where  the  gallant 
author,  proving  himself  no  amateur  in  the  busi- 
[77] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


ness,  sings  the  loves  of  Launcelot  and  Guinevere. 
The  match  fell  pat.  The  kiss  in  the  book  was  re- 
peated by  the  passionate  youth  on  the  girl's  mouth. 
And  at  this  point  of  the  story,  with  rare  skill  and 
sublime  truth,  the  Florentine  poet  tells  us  what 
happens.  [Points  to  the  line.]  But  this  is  what  I  do 
not  understand.  "Galeoto"  was  the  book  they  were 
reading,  and  they  read  no  more.  They  stopped 
reading?  That's  easy  enough  to  understand.  But 
this  Galeoto,  tell  me  where  he  comes  in,  and  who  was 
he?  You  ought  to  know,  since  he  has  given  his 
name  to  the  play  that  is  to  make  you  famous.  Let 
me  see.  [Takes  up  the  MS.  and  examines  it.] 

ERNEST.  Galeoto  was  the  go-between  for  the 
Queen  and  Launcelot,  and  in  all  loves  the  third  may 
be  truthfully  nicknamed  Galeoto,  above  all  when 
we  wish  to  suggest  an  ugly  word  without  shocking 
the  audience. 

PEPITO.  I  see,  but  have  we  no  Spanish  word  to 
express  it? 

ERNEST.  We  have  one,  quite  suitable  and  ex- 
pressive enough.  'Tis  an  office  that  converts  de- 
sires into  ducats,  overcomes  scruples,  and  is  fed  upon 
the  affections.  It  has  a  name,  but  to  use  it  would  be 
putting  a  fetter  upon  myself,  forcing  myself  to  ex- 
[78] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


press  what,  after  all,  I  would  leave  unsaid.  [Takes 
the  MS.  from  PEPITO  and  flings  it  upon  the  table.] 
Each  especial  case,  I  have  remarked,  has  its  own 
especial  go-between.  Sometimes  it  is  the  entire 
social  mass  that  is  Galeoto.  It  then  unconsciously 
exercises  the  office  under  the  influence  of  a  vice  of 
quite  another  aspect,  but  so  dexterously  does  it  work 
against  honour  and  modesty  that  no  greater  Galeoto 
can  ever  be  found.  Let  a  man  and  woman  live 
happily,  in  tranquil  and  earnest  fulfilment  of  their 
separate  duties.  Nobody  minds  them,  and  they 
float  along  at  ease.  But  God  be  praised,  this  is  a 
state  of  things  that  does  not  last  long  in  Madrid. 
One  morning  somebody  takes  the  trouble  to  notice 
them,  and  from  that  moment,  behold  society  en- 
gaged in  the  business,  without  aim  or  object,  on  the 
hunt  for  hidden  frailty  and  impurity.  Then  it  pro- 
nounces and  judges,  and  there  is  no  logic  that  can 
convince  it,  nor  living  man  who  can  hope  to  per- 
suade it,  and  the  honestest  has  not  a  rag  of  honour 
left.  And  the  terrible  thing  is,  that  while  it  begins 
in  error  it  generally  ends  in  truth.  The  atmosphere 
is  so  dense,  misery  so  envelops  the  pair,  such  is 
the  press  and  torrent  of  slander,  that  they  uncon- 
sciously seek  one  another,  unite  lovelessly,  drift 
[791 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


toward  their  fall,  and  adore  each  other  until  death. 
The  word  was  the  stumbling-stone  of  virtue,  and 
made  clear  the  way  for  shame  —  was  Galeoto  and  — 
[aside]  —  stay !  what  mad  thought  inflames  me ! 

PEPITO  [Aside],  If  that's  the  way  he  discourses 
to  Teodora,  heaven  help  poor  Don  Julian.  [Aloud.] 
I  suppose  last  night's  verses  dealt  with  the  subject. 

ERNEST.     Yes,  they  did. 

PEPITO.  How  can  you  waste  your  time  so  coolly, 
and  sit  there  so  calm,  doing  nothing,  when  in  another 
hour  you  will  be  measuring  swords  with  Nebreda, 
who,  for  all  his  dandy's  cane,  is  a  man  when  put 
upon  his  mettle?  Wouldn't  it  be  saner  and  wiser 
to  practise  fencing  instead  of  expounding  questions  of 
verse  and  rhyme?  You  look  so  mighty  cool  that  I 
almost  doubt  if  you  regard  your  meeting  with  the 
viscount  as  serious. 

ERNEST.  No  —  for  a  good  reason.  If  I  kill  him, 
the  world  gains;  if  he  kill  me,  I  gain. 

PEPITO.     Well,  that's  good. 

ERNEST.     Don't  say  any  more  about  it. 

PEPITO  [Aside],  Now  I  must  warily  find  out. 
[Approaches  him  and  speaks  in  a  low  voice.]  Is  it  for 
to-day? 

ERNEST.    Yes,  to-day. 

[80] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


PEPITO.     Outside  the  town? 

ERNEST.  No,  there's  no  time  for  that.  Besides, 
we  wish  to  keep  it  quiet. 

PEPITO.     In  a  house,  then? 

ERNEST.     So  I  proposed. 

PEPITO.     Where? 

ERNEST.  Upstairs.  [S peaks  vrith  cold  indifference.] 
There's  a  room  unlet  upstairs,  with  a  side  window, 
through  which  nobody  can  look.  Under  the  cir- 
cumstances it's  better  than  a  field,  and  will  be  had 
for  a  handful  of  silver. 

PEPITO.    And  now  all  you  need 

ERNEST.     The  swords! 

PEPITO.  I  hear  voices  outside.  Somebody  is 
coming  —  the  seconds? 

ERNEST.    May  be. 

PEPITO.  It  sounds  like  a  woman's  voice.  [Ap- 
proaches door.] 

ERNEST  [Approaches  also].  But  who's  keeping 
them? 

SCENE  VI 
ERNEST,  PEPITO,  and  servant. 

SERVANT  [Mysteriously].  Somebody  wants  to 
see  you,  sir. 

[81] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


ERNEST.    Who? 

SERVANT.     A  lady. 

ERNEST.     How  extraordinary! 

PEPITO     [A side  to  servant].     What  does  she  want? 

SERVANT     [To  PEPITO].     She  is  crying. 

PEPITO     [Aloud].     Is  she  young? 

SERVANT.  Really,  sir,  I  can't  say.  It's  very 
dark  outside,  and  the  lady's  face  is  so  thickly  veiled 
that  the  devil  himself  couldn't  tell  what  she's  like, 
and  she  speaks  so  low  you  can't  even  hear  her. 

ERNEST.     Who  can  she  be? 

PEPITO.     Who  could  want  to  see  you? 

ERNEST.     I  cannot  think. 

PEPITO  [Aside],  This  is  startling.  [Takes  up 
his  hat  and  holds  out  his  hand.]  Well,  I'll  leave  you  in 
peace.  Good-bye  and  good  luck.  [To  the  servant.] 
What  are  you  waiting  for,  you  booby? 

SERVANT.     For  orders  to  show  the  lady  in. 

PEPITO.  In  such  a  case  'tis  your  business  to  antici- 
pate them.  And  afterward,  until  the  veiled  one  has 
departed,  you  mustn't  let  any  one  in  unless  the  sky 
were  falling. 

SERVANT.     Then  I  am  to  show  her  in? 

ERNEST.  Yes.  [To  PEPITO  at  the  door.]  Good- 
bye. 

[82] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


PEPITO.     Good-bye,  Ernest. 

[Exeunt  servant  and  PEPITO. 

ERNEST.  A  lady?  on  what  pretext?  What  does 
this  mean?  [Enter  TEODORA,  thickly  veiled;  she 
stands  without  approaching.]  Ah,  there  she  is! 

SCENE  VII 

TEODORA  and  ERNEST,  she  behind  not  daring  to  ad- 
vance, he  turned  toward  her. 

ERNEST.  You  desire  to  speak  to  me,  madam? 
Kindly  be  seated.  [Offers  her  a  chair.]  . 

TEODORA    [Unveiling].    Forgive  me,  Ernest. 

ERNEST.     TEODORA! 

TEODORA.     I  am  wrong  to  come  —  am  I  not? 

ERNEST  [Abruptly  and  stammering],  I  can't  say 
—  since  I  don't  know  to  what  I  owe  this  honour. 
But  what  am  I  saying?  Alas!  Here,  in  my  rooms, 
madam,  reverence  attends  you,  than  which  you  can- 
not find  a  greater  —  [with  devotion] .  But  what  wrong 
can  you  possibly  fear  here,  lady? 

TEODORA.    None  —  and  there  was  a  time  —  but 

that  once  is  forever  past.    No  thought  of  doubt 

or  fear  was  then.     I  might  have  crossed  any  room  on 

your  arm  without  blush  or  fluttering  pulse.    But 

[83] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


now !  They  tell  me  that  you  are  starting  for  Amer- 
ica to-morrow  —  and  I  —  yes  —  like  those  who  go 
away  —  perhaps  not  to  return  —  it  is  so  sad  to  lose 
a  friend!  —  before  Julian  —  before  the  whole  world 
—  thinking  only  of  our  affection  —  I  myself,  Ernest, 
would  have  held  out  my  arms  to  you  —  in  farewell. 

ERNEST  [Starts  and  quickly  restrains  himself]. 
Oh,  Teodora! 

TEODORA.  But  now  I  suppose  it  is  not  the  same 
thing.  There  is  a  gulf  between  us. 

ERNEST.  You  are  right,  madam.  We  may  no 
longer  care  for  one  another,  be  no  longer  brother  and 
sister.  The  mutual  touch  of  palm  would  leave  our 
hands  unclean.  'Tis  all  forever  past.  What  we 
have  now  to  learn  is  to  hate  one  another. 

TEODORA  [In  naive  consternation].  Hate!  surely 
not! 

ERNEST.  Have  I  used  that  word  —  and  to  you! 
poor  child! 

TEODORA.    Yes. 

ERNEST.  Don't  heed  me.  If  you  needed  my 
life,  and  the  occasion  offered  itself,  claim  it,  Teodora, 
for,  to  give  my  life  for  you  would  be  —  [with  passion] 
it  would  be  my  duty.  [With  a  sudden  change  of 
voice.  Pause.]  Hate!  If  my  lips  pronounced  the 
[84] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


word,  I  was  thinking  of  the  misery  —  I  was  thinking 
of  the  injury  I  have  unwittingly  wrought  one  to 
whom  I  owe  so  much.  Yes,  you,  Teodora,  must 
hate  me  —  but  I  —  ah,  no! 

TEODORA  [Sadly].  They  have  made  me  shed 
tears  enough;  yes,  you  are  right  in  that,  Ernest 
[with  tenderness],  but  you  I  do  not  accuse.  Who 
could  condemn  or  blame  you  for  all  this  talk?  You 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  venomous  solicitude  with 
which  evil  minds  honour  us,  nor  with  poor  Julian's 
clouded  temper.  It  is  sorrow  that  makes  him  res- 
tive, and  his  suffering  wounds  me,  for  I  know  that  it 
springs  from  doubt  of  my  devotion. 

ERNEST.  That  is  what  I  cannot  understand 
[angrily],  and  in  him  less  than  in  another.  It  is  what 
drives  me  wild :  by  the  living  God,  I  protest  it  is  not 
worthy  of  pity,  and  there  is  no  excuse  for  it.  That  the 
man  should  exist  who  could  doubt  a  woman  like  you ! 

TEODORA.  Poor  fellow,  he  pays  a  heavy  price 
for  his  savage  distrust. 

ERNEST  [Horrified  to  find  he  has  been  blaming 
DON  JULIAN  to  TEODORA].  What  have  I  said?  I 

don't  accuse  him  —  no  —  I  meant [He  hastens 

to  exculpate  DON  JULIAN  and  modify  his  former 

words.]    Anybody  might  feel  the  same,  that  is,  if  he 

[851 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


were  very  much  in  love.  In  our  earthly  egoism,  don't 
we  doubt  the  very  God  in  heaven?  And  the  owner 
of  a  treasure  jealously  watches  it  as  gold,  and  cannot 
but  fear  for  it.  I,  too,  in  his  place,  would  be  full 
of  doubt,  —  yes  —  even  of  my  own  brother.  [Speaks 
with  increasing  fervour,  and  again  restrains  himself, 
perceiving  that  he  is  on  the  brink  of  a  peril  he  would 
avoid.  TEODORA  hears  voices  outside  and  rushes  to 
door.] 

ERNEST.  Whither  are  you  leading  me,  rebel  heart ? 
What  depth  have  I  stirred?  I  accuse  the  world  of 
calumny,  and  would  now  prove  it  right. 

TEODORA.     Do  you  hear?     Somebody  is  coming. 

ERNEST  [Following  her].  It  is  hardly  two  o'clock. 
Can  it  be ? 

TEODORA  [With  terror].  It  is  Julian's  voice.  — 
He  is  coming  in! 

ERNEST.     No,  they  have  prevented  him. 

TEODORA  [Turns  to  ERNEST,  still  frightened]. 
If  it  were  Julian?  [Moves  toward  the  bedroom  door. 
ERNEST  detains  her  respectfully.] 

ERNEST.     Should  it  be  he,  stay  here.     Loyalty  is 
our  shield.     Were  it  one  of  those  who  distrust  us  — 
then  there,  Teodora.     [Points  to  the  door.]     Ah,  no- 
body.    [Listening.] 

[86] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


TEODORA.     How  my  heart  throbs! 

ERNEST.  You  need  not  be  afraid.  The  person 
who  wanted  to  come  in  has  gone  away  —  or  it  was 
an  illusion.  For  God's  sake,  Teodora !  [Ad- 
vances up  the  stage.] 

TEODORA.  I  have  so  much  to  say  to  you,  Ernest, 
and  the  time  has  passed  so  quickly. 

ERNEST.     The  time  has  flown! 

TEODORA.     I  wanted 

ERNEST.  Teodora,  pray  forgive  me  —  but  is  it 
prudent?  If  any  one  came  in  —  and,  indeed,  I  fear 
some  one  will. 

TEODORA.     That  is  why  I  came  —  to  prevent  it. 

ERNEST.     So   that ? 

TEODORA.  I  know  everything,  and  I  am  stricken 
with  horror  at  the  thought  that  blood  should  be  shed 
on  my  account.  My  head  is  on  fire,  my  heart  is 
bursting.  [Strikes  her  breast.] 

ERNEST.  It  is  the  affront  that  burns  and  shames 
you  until  my  hand  has  struck  at  Nebreda's  life.  He 
wanted  mud!  Well,  let  him  have  it  stained  with 
blood. 

TEODORA.     You  would  kill  him? 

ERNEST.  Certainly.  [Represses  TEODORA'S  move- 
ment of  supplication.]  You  can  dispose  of  me  in  all 
[871 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


else  but  in  this  one  thing.  Do  not  ask  me  to  feel 
compassion  for  a  man  whose  insult  I  remember. 

TEODORA     [Prayerfully,  with  a  sob].     For  my  sake! 

ERNEST.    For  your  sake? 

TEODORA.     It  would  be  such  a  horrible  scandal. 

ERNEST.    That  is  possible. 

TEODORA.  You  can  say  it  so  coolly,  and  not 
endeavour  to  avoid  it,  not  even  when  it  is  I  who 
implore  you! 

ERNEST.  I  cannot  avoid  it,  but  I  can  chastise  it: 
so  I  think  and  say,  and  this  is  my  business.  Others 
will  look  for  the  insult,  I  for  the  punishment. 

TEODORA  [Coming  nearer  and  speaking  softly,  as 
if  afraid  of  her  own  voice].  And  Julian? 

ERNEST.    Well? 

TEODORA.     If  he  were  to  know  about  it? 

ERNEST.     He  will  know  about  it. 

TEODORA.     What  will  he  say? 

ERNEST.     What? 

TEODORA.  That  only  my  husband,  the  man  who 
loves  me,  has  a  right  to  defend  me. 

ERNEST.     Every  honourable  man  has  the  right  to 

defend  a  lady.     He  may  not  even  know  her,   be 

neither  a  friend,  nor  a  relative,  nor  a  lover.     It  is 

enough  for  him  to  hear  a  woman  insulted.     Why  do 

[88] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


I  fight  this  duel?  Why  do  I  defend  her?  Because 
I  heard  the  calumny.  Because  I  am  myself.  Who  is 
so  base  as  to  give  his  protection  by  scale  and  meas- 
ure? Was  I  not  there?  Then  whoever  it  was  —  I 
or  another  —  who  was  first  on  the  scene 

TEODORA  [Listens  eagerly,  dominated  by  him,  and 
holds  out  her  hand  to  him].  This  is  noble  and  hon- 
ourable, and  worthy  of  you,  Ernest.  [Then  restrains 
herself  and  moves  backward.]  But  it  leaves  Julian 
humiliated.  [With  conviction.] 

ERNEST.    He?  humiliated! 

TEODORA.     Most  surely. 

ERNEST.     Why? 

TEODORA.     For  no  reason  whatever. 

ERNEST.    Who  will  say  so? 

TEODORA.     Everybody. 

ERNEST.     But  wherefore? 

TEODORA.  When  the  world  hears  of  the  affront, 
and  learns  that  it  was  not  my  husband  who  avenged 
me,  and  above  all  —  [drops  her  eyes  ashamed]  —  that 
it  was  you  who  took  his  place  —  have  we  not  then 
a  new  scandal  topping  the  old? 

ERNEST     [Convinced   but   protests].     If    one    had 
always  to  think  of  what  people  will  say,  by  Heaven! 
there  would  be  no  manner  or  means  of  living  then ! 
[89] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


TEODORA.     It  is  so,  nevertheless. 

ERNEST.     Just  so.     'Tis  horrible. 

TEODORA.     Then  yield. 

ERNEST.     Impossible. 

TEODORA.     I  beseech  you. 

ERNEST.  No.  Looking  into  the  matter,  as 
nobody  can  know  what  will  happen,  it  is  better 
that  I  should  face  Nebreda.  For,  after  all,  if 
the  fellow  lack  a  sense  of  honour,  he  can  use  a 
sword. 

TEODORA  [Wounded  and  humiliated  in  the  protec- 
tion ERNEST  seems  to  offer  DON  JULIAN].  My  hus- 
band is  not  lacking  in  courage. 

ERNEST.  Fatality  again!  Either  I  have  ex- 
pressed myself  ill,  or  you  do  not  understand  me.  I 
know  his  worth.  But  when  a  desperate  injury  lies 
between  men  of  courage,  who  knows  what  may  hap- 
pen? which  of  them  may  fall,  and  which  may  kill? 
And  if  this  man's  sword  must  strike  Don  Julian  or 
Ernest,  can  you  doubt  which  it  ought  to  be?  [Ques- 
tions her  with  sad  sincerity.] 

TEODORA  [In  anguish].  You!  —  oh,  no  —  not 
that,  either. 

ERNEST.    Why?    If  it  is  my  fate?    Nobody  loses 
by  my  death,  and  I  lose  still  less. 
[90] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


TEODORA.  For  Heaven's  sake,  do  not  say  that! 
[Barely  able  to  repress  her  sobs.] 

ERNEST.  What  do  I  leave  behind  me?  Neither 
friendship  nor  strong  love.  What  woman  is  there 
to  follow  my  corpse  shedding  a  lover's  tears? 

TEODORA.     Last  night  I  prayed  for  you  —  and 

you  say  that  nobody I  could  not  bear  you  to  die. 

[Vehemently.] 

ERNEST.  Ah,  we  pray  for  any  one;  we  only  weep 
for  one.  [With  passion.] 

TEODORA     [Startled].    Ernest! 

ERNEST     [Terrified  by  his  own  words].     What! 

TEODORA     [Moving  farther  away].     Nothing. 

ERNEST  [Also  moving  away  and  looking  nervously 
down].  I  told  you  a  little  while  ago  I  was  half 
mad.  Do  not  heed  me.  [Pause.  Both  remain 
silent  and  pensive,  at  some  distance,  not  looking  at 
each  other.] 

TEODORA  [Starting  and  glancing  anxiously  down 
the  stage].  Again! 

ERNEST  [Following  her  movement].  Somebody 
has  come. 

TEODORA.     They  are  trying  to  get  in. 

ERNEST     [Listening].     There  can  be  no  doubt  of 
it.     There,  Teodora!     [Points  to  the  bedroom  door.] 
[91] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


TEODORA.     My  honour  is  my  shield. 

ERNEST.    But  it  is  not  your  husband. 

TEODORA.     Not  Julian? 

ERNEST    [Leading  her  to  the  door].    No. 

TEODORA.     I  hoped [Detains  him  with  an  air 

of  supplication.]     Will  you  give  up  this  duel? 

Ernest.     Give  it  up?     When  I've  struck  him ! 

TEODORA.     I   didn't  know  that.     [Despairingly, 
but  understands  that- nothing  can  be  done.]     Then  fly! 

ERNEST.    I  fly! 

TEODORA.    For  my  sake,  for  his  sake  —  for  God's 
sake! 

ERNEST    [Despairingly].    You  must  loathe  me  to 
propose  such  a  thing  to  me.     Never! 

TEODORA.     One  word  only.     Are  they  coming  for 
you  now? 

ERNEST.     It  is  not  yet  time. 

TEODORA.     Swear  it  to  me. 

ERNEST.     Yes,    Teodora.     And    you  —  say    you 
don't  hate  me. 

TEODORA.     Never. 

PEPITO     [Outside].     Nothing.     I  must  see  him. 

ERNEST.     Quickly. 

TEODORA.     Yes.     [Hides  in  the  bedroom.] 

PEPITO.     Why  do  you  prevent  me? 
[92] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


ERNEST.  Ah,  calumny  is  working  to  make  the 
lie  truth. 

SCENE  VIII 

ERNEST  and  PEPITO,  vnihout  his  hat,  exhibiting 
strong  excitement. 

PEPITO.     Go  to  the  devil  —  I  will  go  in  —  Ernest! 

ERNEST.     What  has  happened? 

PEPITO.  I  hardly  know  how  to  tell  you  —  yet  I 
must 

ERNEST.     Speak. 

PEPITO.  My  head  is  in  a  whirl.  Christ  above, 
who  would  think 

ERNEST.  Quickly.  A  clear  account  of  what  has 
happened. 

PEPITO.  What  has  happened?  A  great  misfor- 
tune. Don  Julian  heard  of  the  duel.  He  came  here 
to  look  for  you,  and  you  were  out.  He  went  away 
to  find  the  seconds,  and  marched  them  off  to  Neb- 
reda's  house. 

ERNEST.     Nebreda's!    How? 

PEPITO.  The  Lord  send  you  sense.  Don  Julian's 
way,  of  course,  who  makes  short  work  of  convention 
and  the  will  of  others. 

[93] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


ERNEST.  Go  on 


PEPITO  [Going  to  the  door].  They're  coming,  I 
believe. 

ERNEST.    Who? 

PEPITO.     They  —  they're  carrying  Don  Julian. 

ERNEST.  You  terrify  me.  Explain  at  once. 
[Catches  his  arm  violently,  and  drags  him  forward.] 

PEPITO.  He  compelled  him  to  fight.  There  was 
no  way  out  of  it.  The  viscount  cried:  "Very  well, 
between  us  two."  It  was  settled  it  should  take  place 
here.  Don  Julian  came  upstairs.  Your  servant 
sent  him  away,  protesting  you  were  engaged  with  a 
lady,  and  swearing  nobody  could  enter. 

ERNEST.     And  then? 

PEPITO.  Don  Julian  went  downstairs  muttering 
"better  so.  I  have  the  day's  work  for  myself."  And 
he,  my  father,  Nebreda,  and  the  seconds  came  back 
together,  and  went  upstairs. 

ERNEST.     They  fought? 

PEPITO.  Furiously,  as  men  fight  when  their  intent 
is  deadly,  and  their  enemy's  heart  is  within  reach 
of  the  sword's  point. 

ERNEST.  And  Don  Julian!  No  —  it  must  be  a 
lie. 

PEPITO.    Here  they  are. 
[94] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


ERNEST.  Silence.  Tell  me  who  it  is,  but  speak 
softly. 

PEPITO.  There.  [Enter  DON  JULIAN,  DON  SEV- 
ERO,  and  RUEDA.  The  two  men  support  DON  JULIAN, 
who  is  badly  wounded.] 

ERNEST.    Heaven  preserve  us ! 

SCENE  IX 

ERNEST,  PEPITO,  DON  JULIAN,  DON  SEVERO,  and 
RUEDA. 

ERNEST.  Don  Julian!  my  friend,  my  father,  my 
benefactor !  [Hurries  excitedly  toward  him,  and  speaks 
brokenly.] 

D.  JULIAN    [Weakly].     Ernest! 

ERNEST.     Oh,  wretched  I! 

D.  SEVERO.     Quick,  come  away. 

ERNEST.     Father! 

D.  SEVERO.     He  is  fainting  with  pain. 

ERNEST.     For  my  sake! 

JULIAN.     It  is  not  so. 

ERNEST.  Through  me  —  pardon!  [Takes  DON 
JULIAN'S  hand,  bends  on  one  knee  before  him.] 

JULIAN.  No  need  to  ask  it,  lad.  You  did  your 
duty,  and  I  did  mine. 

[95] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


D.  SEVERO.  A  couch.  [Loosens  his  hold  of  DON 
JULIAN,  and  PEPITO  takes  his  place.] 

PEPITO  [Pointing  to  the  bedroom].  Let  us  carry 
him  in  there. 

ERNEST     [Shouting  terribly].     Nebreda! 

D.  SEVERO.  Let  there  be  an  end  to  folly.  Is  it 
your  intention  to  kill  him  outright? 

ERNEST  [With  frenzy].  Folly,  oh,  we'll  see.  7 
have  two  to  aVenge  now.  It  is  my  right.  [Rushes 
down  the  stage.] 

D.  SEVERO  [Moving  to  the  right].  We'll  take  him 
into  your  room  and  lay  him  on  the  bed.  [ERNEST 
wheels  round  in  terror.] 

ERNEST.     Where? 

D.  SEVERO.     In  here. 

PEPITO.    Yes. 

ERNEST.  No.  [Strides  back,  and  stands  before  the 
door.  The  group  are  on  the  point  of  lifting  DON  JULIAN, 
desist,  and  stare  at  ERNEST  in  indignant  surprise.] 

D.  SEVERO.    You  forbid  it? 

PEPITO.    Are  you  mad? 

D.  SEVERO.     Back!    Can't  you  see  he  is  dying? 

D.  JULIAN.  What  is  it?  He  doesn't  wish  it? 
[Raises  himself  and  looks  at  ERNEST  in  distrust  and 
fear.] 

[96] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


RUDEA.     I  don't  understand  it. 

PEPITO.     Nor  I. 

ERNEST.  He  is  dying  —  and  implores  me  —  and 
doubts  me  —  father! 

D.  SEVERO.  Come,  we  must.  [Pushes  open  the  door 
above  ERNEST'S  shoulder.  TEODORA  is  discovered.] 

ERNEST.     My  God! 

D.  SEVERO  and  PEPITO.    She! 

RUEDA.     A  woman! 

TEODORA  [Coming  forward  to  her  husband  and 
embracing  him.]  Julian! 

D.  JULIAN.  Who  is  it?  [Pushes  her  away  to  stare 
at  her,  drags  himself  to  his  feet  with  a  violent  effort,  and 
shakes  himself  free  of  all  aid.]  Teodora!  [Falls  life- 
less to  the  ground.] 


[97] 


ACT  III 


ACT  III 

The  same  decoration  as  first  act:  an  armchair  instead  of 
a  sofa.    It  is  night;  a  lighted  lamp  stands  on  the  table. 

SCENE  I 

PEPITO  listening  at  the  door  on  the  right,  then  comes 
back  into  the  middle  of  the  stage. 

PEPITO.  The  crisis  is  past  at  last.  I  hear  nothing. 
Poor  Don  Julian.  He's  in  a  sad  way.  His  life 
hangs  in  the  balance:  on  one  side  death  awaits  him, 
and  on  the  other  another  death,  that  of  the  soul,  of 
honour  —  either  abyss  deeper  than  hopeless  love.  The 
devil !  All  this  tragedy  is  making  me  more  sentimen- 
tal than  that  fellow  with  his  plays  and  verses.  The 
tune  of  disaster,  scandal,  death,  treason,  and  dis- 
grace hums  in  my  brain.  By  Jove,  what  a  day, 
and  what  a  night!  and  the  worst  is  yet  to  come. 
Well,  it  certainly  was  madness  to  move  him  in  his 
condition;  but  when  once  my  uncle  gets  an  idea  into 
his  head,  there's  no  reasoning  with  him.  And,  after 
[101] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


all,  he  was  right.  No  honourable  man,  in  his  place, 
could  have  stayed,  and  he  is  a  man  of  spirit.  Who  is 
coming?  my  mother,  I  believe  —  yes. 

[Enter  DONA  MERCEDES. 

SCENE    II 
PEPITO  and  DONA  MERCEDES. 

MERCEDES.     Where's  Severe? 

PEPITO.  He  has  not  left  my  uncle  for  a  moment. 
I  had  no  idea  he  was  so  attached  to  him.  If  what  I 
fear  should  happen 

MERCEDES.     How  is  your  uncle? 

PEPITO.  He  suffers  greatly,  but  says  nothing. 
Sometimes  he  calls  out  "Teodora"  in  a  low,  harsh, 
voice,  and  sometimes  "Ernest";  and  then  he  tugs 
violently  at  the  sheets,  and  lies  quiet  again  as  a 
statue,  staring  vacantly  into  space.  Now  his  brow 
is  bathed  in  the  cold  sweat  of  death,  and  then  fever 
seizes  him.  He  sits  up  in  bed,  listens  attentively, 
and  shouts  that  he  and  she  are  waiting  for  him.  He 
tries  to  jump  out  of  bed  to  rush  at  them,  and  all 
my  father's  entreaties  and  commands  barely  suffice 
to  restrain  him  or  soothe  him.  There's  no  quiet- 
ing him.  Anger  races  hot  through  his  veins  and 
[102] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


thought  is  a  flame.  It  is  shocking,  mother,  to  see 
the  bitter  way  his  lips  contract,  and  how  his  fingers 
close  in  a  vise,  with  head  all  wild,  and  pupils  dilated 
as  though  they  drank  in  with  yearning  and  despair 
every  shadow  that  floats  around  the  chamber. 

MERCEDES.     How  does  your  father  bear  it? 

PEPITO.  He  groans  and  breathes  of  vengeance. 
He,  too,  mutters  the  names  of  Teodora  and  Ernest. 
I  hope  to  God  he  will  not  meet  either,  for  if  he  should, 
small  chance  there  is  of  restraining  his  fury. 

MERCEDES.     Your  father  is  a  good  man. 

PEPITO.    Yes,  but  with  a  temper 

MERCEDES.  It  is  not  easily  aroused,  however. 
But  when  he  has  cause 

PEPITO.  With  all  due  respect,  he's  then  a  very 
tiger. 

MERCEDES.     Only  when  provoked. 

PEPITO.  I  don't  know  about  other  occasions, 
but  this  time  he  certainly  has  provocation  enough. 
And  Teodora? 

MERCEDES.  She  is  upstairs.  She  wanted  to  come 
down  —  and  cried  —  like  a  Magdalen. 

PEPITO.     Already!     Repentant  or  erring? 

MERCEDES.  Don't  speak  so.  Unhappy  girl,  she 
is  but  a  child. 

[103] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


PEPITO.  Who,  innocent  and  candid,  sweet  and 
pure  and  meek,  kills  Don  Julian.  So  that,  if  I  am 
to  accept  your  word,  and  regard  her  as  a  child,  and 
such  is  her  work  on  the  edge  of  infancy,  we  may  pray 
God  in  his  mercy  to  guard  us  from  her  when  she  shall 
have  put  on  years. 

MERCEDES.  She  is  hardly  to  be  blamed.  The  in- 
famy lies  with  your  fine  friend  —  he  of  the  drama, 
the  poet  and  dreamer.  He  it  is  who  is  the  culprit. 

PEPITO.     I  don't  deny  it. 

MERCEDES.     Where  is  he? 

PEPITO.  Where  is  he?  At  this  moment  racing 
about  the  streets  and  public  places,  flying  from  his 
conscience,  and  unable  to  get  away  from  it. 

MERCEDES.     He  has  a  conscience? 

PEPITO.     So  it  would  seem. 

MERCEDES.     Oh,  what  a  tragedy! 

PEPITO.     A  misfortune! 

MERCEDES.     Such  a  deception! 

PEPITO.    A  cruel  one. 

MERCEDES.     What  shocking  treason! 

PEPITO.     Unparalleled. 

MERCEDES.     Poor  Julian ! 

PEPITO.     Melancholy  fate! 

[Enter  servant. 
[104] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


SCENE  III 
DONA  MERCEDES,  PEPITO,  and  servant. 

SERVANT.     Don  Ernest. 
MERCEDES.     He  dares 


PEPITO.     This  is  too  much. 

SERVANT.     I  thought 

PEPITO.     You  had  no  business  to  think  anything. 
SERVANT.     He  is  only  passing.     There  is  a  cab 

waiting,  so 

PEPITO.     What  are  we  to  do? 
MERCEDES.     Let  him  come  in. 

[Exit  servant. 

PEPITO.     I'll  give  him  his  dismissal. 
MERCEDES.    Do  it  cleverly. 

SCENE  IV 

DONA  MERCEDES,  PEPITO,  and  ERNEST.  DONA  MER- 
CEDES seated  in  the  armchair,  PEPITO  standing,  and 
ERNEST  behind,  whom  neither  salute  nor  look  at. 

ERNEST  [A side].  Hostile  silence,  anger,  and  con- 
tempt. Through  no  fault  of  my  own,  I  now  ap- 
pear to  them  a  prodigy  of  evil  and  insolence,  and 
they  all  despise  me. 

[105] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


PEPITO.  Listen  to  me,  Ernest.  [Turns  round  to 
him  and  speaks  in  a  hard  voice.] 

ERNEST.     Well? 

PEPITO.     I  have  to  tell  you 

ERNEST.     To  go  away,  perhaps. 

PEPITO  [Changing  his  tone].  Good  heavens! 
What  a  notion!  I  only  —  wanted  to  ask  you  —  if 
it  is  true  —  [hunts  for  something  to  say]  —  that  you 
afterward  —  the  viscount,  you  know? 

ERNEST     [Gloomily  looking  away].     Yes. 

PEPITO.     How  did  it  happen? 

ERNEST.  I  ran  downstairs  —  half  mad  —  I  found 
them  —  we  went  upstairs  again  —  locked  the  door. 
Two  men  —  two  witnesses  —  two  swords  —  and  after- 
ward— I  hardly  know  what  happened.  Swords  clashed 
— there  was  a  cry — a  thrust — blood  spouted — an  as- 
sassin stood  —  and  a  man  lay  stretched  on  the  ground 

PEPITO.  The  devil!  Sharp  work.  Did  you  hear, 
mother? 

MERCEDES.     More  bloodshed. 

PEPITO.     Nebreda  deserved  it. 

ERNEST  [Approaching  her].  Mercedes,  for  pity's 
sake  —  one  word  —  Don  Julian?  How  is  he?  If 
you  could  know  what  my  anguish  is  —  my  sorrow 
—  what  do  they  say? 

[106] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


MERCEDES.  That  the  wound,  since  his  removal, 
is  mortal,  and  it  would  be  worse  for  him  if  you  went 
near  the  bed  of  suffering  and  death.  Leave  this  house. 

ERNEST.     I  must  see  him. 

MERCEDES.     Go  instantly. 

ERNEST.     I  will  not. 

PEPITO.     What  insolence! 

ERNEST.  It  is  befitting.  [To  PEPITO.]  Pardon 
me,  madam — [turning  respectfully  to  MERCEDES]  —you 
see  I  am  achieving  the  general  opinion  of  me. 

MERCEDES.    For  pity's  sake,  Ernest 

ERNEST.  Listen,  Mercedes.  When  a  man  such 
as  I  am  is  abused,  and  for  no  reason  on  earth  treated 
as  a  blackguard,  and  finds  himself  snared,  with 
crime  thrust  upon  him,  'tis  indeed  a  perilous  case  — 
for  others  rather  than  for  himself.  I,  in  this  fierce 
struggle  with  miserable  fate,  have  lost  honour,  friend- 
ship, and  love,  and  have  now  nothing  more  to 
lose  but  the  shabby  shreds  of  an  insipid  and  dreary 
existence.  I  have  come  here  solely  to  know  if  there 
is  any  hope  —  only  for  that  —  and  then  —  but  you 
cannot  deny  me  so  slight  a  consolation?  [Pleading.] 
One  word! 

MERCEDES.  Very  well.  They  say  —  that  he  is 
better. 

[107] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


ERNEST.  True?  You  are  not  deceiving  me? 
You  are  sure  —  quite  sure?  Oh!  you  are  merciful, 
you  are  kind.  It  is  true,  quite  true!  May  God 
spare  him!  Not  his  death.  Let  him  live  and  be 
happy  once  more;  let  him  forgive  me  and  embrace  me 
once  again!  Only  let  me  see  him.  [Falls  into  the 
armchair  beside  the  table  sobbing,  and  covers  his  face 
with  his  hands.  Pause.} 

MERCEDES.  If  your  father  should  hear  —  if  he 
should  come  out.  Courage,  Ernest,  be  sensible. 
[DONA  MERCEDES  and  PEPITO  endeavour  to  screen 
ERNEST.] 

PEPITO.  These  nervous  creatures  are  terrible. 
They  sob  and  kill  in  the  same  breath. 

ERNEST.  If  you  see  me  crying,  while  sobs  shake 
my  throat  in  an  hysterical  convulsion,  and  I  seem 
as  weak  as  a  child,  or  a  woman,  believe  me,  it  is  not 
for  myself,  but  for  him  —  for  her  —  for  their  lost 
happiness,  for  this  indelible  blot  upon  their  name  — 
for  the  affront  I  am  the  cause  of,  in  return  for  all  their 
love  and  kindness.  It  is  not  my  fault,  but  my  utter 
misfortune.  That  is  why  I  weep.  My  God,  if  I 
could  wipe  out  this  wretched  past  with  tears,  I  would 
gladly  weep  away  my  blood  to  the  last  drop. 

MERCEDES.     Silence,  I  implore! 
[108] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


PEPITO.  There,  we  will  discuss  tears  and  sorrows 
another  time. 

ERNEST.  If  everybody  else  is  discussing  them  to- 
day, why  should  we,  too,  not  speak  of  them?  The 
whole  town  is  astir  and  on  tiptoe  with  excitement. 
It  has  swallowed  up,  devoured,  and  blighted  three 
reputations,  three  names,  three  persons,  and  floated 
them  on  the  froth  of  laughter,  and  a  wave  of  de- 
grading chatter  down  the  straits  of  human  misery, 
into  the  social  abyss  of  shame,  where  forever  lie  en- 
gulfed the  conscience,  and  fame,  and  future  of  the 
unfortunates. 

MERCEDES.    Not  so  loud,  Ernest. 

ERNEST.  Why,  since  the  others  are  not  mur- 
murs, but  voices  that  thunder  through  the  air?  The 
tragic  event  is  known  all  over  the  town,  and  each 
one  has  his  own  way  of  telling  it.  Wonderful! 
everything  is  known  except  the  truth.  Tis  fatality. 
[DONA  MERCEDES  and  PEPITO  exhibit  keen  interest 
in  hearing  the  reports.]  Some  say  that  Don  Julian 
discovered  Teodora  in  my  rooms,  and  that  I  attacked 
him  in  blind  fury  and  killed  him  on  the  spot.  Others 
—  and  these  would  seem  to  be  my  friends,  since  they 
raise  me  from  the  rank  of  vulgar  assassin  to  the  noble 
level  of  duellist  —  aver  that  we  fought  loyally  like 
[109] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


gentlemen.  And  there  are  others,  again,  who  have 
the  tale  more  accurately,  and  recount  how  Don 
Julian  took  my  place  in  the  avenged  meeting  with 
Nebreda  —  that  I  arrived  late  on  the  scene  —  either 

from  design  or  fear,  or  because  I  was  in  the  arms 

But  no,  it  would  burn  my  lips  to  give  this  version  — 
the  thought  of  it  sets  my  brain  on  fire.  Seek  the 
basest,  the  vilest,  that  which  most  blackens  —  the 
filth  of  the  mind,  the  mire  of  the  soul,  the  dross  of 
degraded  consciences;  cast  it  to  the  wind  as  it  whis- 
tles along  the  streets  upon  bespattering  tongues,  and 
you  will  have  the  tale,  and  may  see  what  reputation 
remains  for  an  innocent  woman  and  two  honest  men 
when  the  town  takes  to  jabbering  about  them. 

MERCEDES.     It  is  sad,  I  admit;  but  perhaps  pub- 
lic opinion  is  not  altogether  to  blame. 

PEPITO.     Teodora  did  go  to  your  rooms  —  she 
was  there 

ERNEST.    To  prevent  the  duel  with  Nebreda. 

PEPITO.     Then  why  did  she  hide  herself 

ERNEST.    Because  we  feared  her  presence  would 
be  misconstrued. 

PEPITO.     The   explanation  is   easy   and   simple. 
The  difficult  thing,  Ernest,  is  to  get  us  to  believe  it, 
for  there  is  another  still  more  easy  and  simple. 
[110] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


ERNEST.  Which  dishonours  more,  and  that's  the 
beauty  of  it. 

PEPITO.  Well,  at  least,  admit  that  Teodora  was 
giddy,  if  not  really  culpable. 

ERNEST.  Guilt  is  prudent  and  cautious.  On  the 
other  hand,  how  imprudent  is  innocence ! 

PEPITO.  Look  here,  if  your  rule  holds  good  for 
everybody,  the  worst  of  us  is  an  angel  or  a  saint. 

ERNEST.  You  are  right.  What  does  it  matter? 
What  is  the  weight  or  value  of  such  calumny?  The 
worst  of  it  is  that  thought  is  degraded  by  mean  con- 
tact with  a  mean  idea.  From  force  of  dwelling 
upon  a  crime,  the  conscience  becomes  familiar  with 
it.  It  shows  itself  terrible  and  repellent  —  but  it 
shows  itself — at  night,  in  dark  solitude!  Yes  — 
[aside]  — but  what!  why  are  they  listening  to  me  so 
strangely,  almost  in  suspense?  [Aloud.]  I  am  my- 
self; my  name  is  an  honourable  one.  If  I  killed 
Nebreda  solely  because  of  a  lie,  what  would  I  not 
do  to  myself  if  guilt  threatened  to  give  the  truth  to 
calumny? 

PEPITO  [Aside  to  MERCEDES].  He  denied  it! 
Why,  it  is  as  clear  as  daylight. 

MERCEDES     [Aside  to  PEPITO].    He's  wandering. 

PEPITO.     'Tis  only  his  confession  he's  making. 
[Ill] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


MERCEDES  [Aloud].  That  will  do,  Ernest.  Go 
now. 

ERNEST.  Impossible,  madam.  I  should  go  mad 
if  I  had  to  spend  to-night  away  from  this  sick-room 
—  out  of  my  mind. 

MERCEDES.  But  if  Severe  came  and  found 
you? 

ERNEST.  What  do  I  care?  He  is  a  loyal  gentle- 
man. Better  still,  let  him  come.  We  fly  from  fear, 
and  only  the  guilty  are  afraid.  Nothing  will  make 
me  run  away,  or  acknowledge  fear. 

PEPITO     [Listening].     Somebody  is  coming. 

MERCEDES.     Is  it  he? 

PEPITO     [Going  down  the  stage].     No,  'tis  Teodora. 

ERNEST.  Teodora!  Teodora!  I  want  to  see 
her. 

MERCEDES    [Sternly],    Ernest! 

ERNEST.     Yes,  I  must  ask  her  to  forgive  me. 

MERCEDES.     You  don't  remember 

ERNEST.  I  remember  everything  and  understand. 
We  two  together!  Ah,  no.  Enough!  You  need  not 
fear.  For  her  would  I  shed  my  blood,  lay  down  my 
life,  sacrifice  my  future,  honour  —  all !  But  see 
her?  never!  'Tis  no  longer  possible.  The  mist  of 
blood  has  risen  between  us.  [Goes  out  on  the  left. 
[1121 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


SCENE  V 
DONA  MERCEDES  and  PEPITO. 

MERCEDES.  Leave  me  alone  with  her.  Go  in- 
side to  your  father.  I  want  to  see  into  her  heart,  and 
shall  be  able  to  probe  its  depths  with  my  tongue. 

PEPITO.     Then  I  will  leave  you  together. 

MERCEDES.     Good-bye. 

PEPITO.     Good-bye.  [Goes  out  on  the  right. 

MERCEDES.     Now  to  put  my  plan  into  work. 

SCENE  VI 

TEODORA  and  DONA  MERCEDES.  TEODORA  enters 
timidly  and  stands  near  DON  JULIAN'S  door  on  the 
right,  listening  anxiously,  and  muffling  her  sobs  with 
her  handkerchief. 

MERCEDES.     Teodora. 
TEODORA.     It  is  you.     [Advances  to  her.} 
MERCEDES.     Courage!  what  good  does  crying  do? 
TEODORA.    How  is  he?  how  is  he?  the  truth ! 
MERCEDES.     Much  better. 
TEODORA.    Will  he  recover? 
MERCEDES.     I  think  so. 
TEODORA.     My  God!    My  life  for  his! 
[113] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


MERCEDES  [Draws  her  affectionately  forward]. 
And  then  —  I  have  faith  in  your  good  sense.  I  can 
measure  your  remorse  by  your  tears  and  anxiety. 

TEODORA.  Yes  —  [DONA  MERCEDES  sits  down 
with  a  satisfied  air]  —  I  did  wrong,  I  know,  in  going 
to  see  him  —  [DONA  MERCEDES  looks  disappointed 
the  confession  is  no  worse]  —  but  last  night  you  told 
me  about  the  outrage  and  the  duel.  I  was  grateful 
to  you  for  doing  so,  although  I  did  not  then  suspect 
the  harm  you  did  me,  nor  could  I  now  explain  it  to 
you.  Oh,  what  a  night!  [Crosses  her  hands  and 
glances  upward.]  I  have  cried  and  raved,  thinking 
of  Julian's  plight,  of  the  scandal,  of  the  violent  quar- 
rel, and  the  bloodshed.  Everything  passed  before 
my  eyes  —  and  then  —  poor  Ernest  dying,  perhaps, 
for  my  sake !  But  why  do  you  look  at  me  so  strangely  ? 
there  can  be  no  harm  in  it,  surely!  Or  are  you  un- 
convinced, and  do  you  think  as  the  rest  do? 

MERCEDES  [Drily].  I  think  your  fear  for  that 
fellow's  life  altogether  superfluous. 

TEODORA.  Why?  with  so  skilled  an  antagonist! 
You  have  seen  it  —  Julian 

MERCEDES.  Julian  has  been  avenged.  The  man  who 
killed  him  no  longer  lives,  so  that  you  have  been  wasting 
your  fears  and  your  tears.   [With  deliberate  hardness.] 
[114] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


TEODORA     [Eagerly],     It  was  Ernest 

MERCEDES.     Yes,  Ernest. 

TEODORA.    He  met  the  viscount? 

MERCEDES.     Face  to  face. 

TEODORA  [Unable  to  restrain  herself].  How  noble 
and  brave! 

MERCEDES.     Teodora! 

TEODORA.    What  do  you  mean?    Tell  me. 

MERCEDES     [Sternly],     I  can  read  your  thought. 

TEODORA.     My  thought? 

MERCEDES.     Yes. 

TEODORA.     Which? 

MERCEDES.     You  know  very  well. 

TEODORA.  Have  I  no  right  to  be  glad  because 
Julian  is  avenged?  Is  that  an  impulse  I  could  be 
expected  to  repress? 

MERCEDES.     That  was  not  your  feeling. 

TEODORA.  You  know  so  much  more  about  it 
than  I  do! 

MERCEDES  [Pointedly].  Believe  me,  admiration 
is  not  far  from  love. 

TEODORA.    What  do  I  admire? 

MERCEDES.    This  youth's  courage. 

TEODORA.    His  nobility ! 

MERCEDES.    Quite  so,  but  that's  the  beginning. 
[115] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


TEODORA.     What  folly ! 

MERCEDES.     It  is  folly  —  but  on  your  side. 

TEODORA.  You  persist!  Ever  this  accursed  idea! 
—  while  it  is  with  immense,  with  infinite  pity  that 
I  am  filled. 

MERCEDES.     For  whom? 

TEODORA.    For  whom  else  but  Julian? 

MERCEDES.  Have  you  never  learnt,  Teodora 
that  in  a  woman's  heart  pity  and  forgetfulness  may 
mean  one  and  the  same  thing? 

TEODORA.     I  beseech  you  —  Mercedes  —  silence! 

MERCEDES.  I  wish  to  let  light  in  upon  the  state 
of  your  mind  —  to  turn  upon  it  the  lamp  of  truth, 
lit  by  my  experience. 

TEODORA.  I  hear  you,  but  while  I  listen,  it 
seems  no  longer  a  sister,  a  friend,  a  mother  that 
speaks  to  me,  so  hateful  are  your  words.  Your  lips 
seem  to  speak  at  inspiration  of  the  devil's  prompting. 
Why  should  you  strive  to  convince  me  that  little  by 
little  I  am  ceasing  to  love  my  husband,  and  that 
more  and  more  I  am  imbued  with  an  impure  tender- 
ness, with  a  feeling  that  burns  and  stains?  I  who 
love  Julian  as  dearly  as  ever,  who  would  give  the 
last  drop  of  blood  in  my  body  for  a  single  breath  of 
life  for  him  —  for  him,  from  whom  I  am  now  sepa- 
[116] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


rated  —  [points  to  his  room]  —  why,  I  should  like  to 
go  in  there  this  moment,  if  your  husband  did  not  bar 
my  way,  and  press  Julian  once  more  in  my  arms.  I 
would  so  inundate  him  with  my  tears,  and  so  close 
him  round  with  the  passion  of  my  love,  that  its 
warmth  would  melt  his  doubts,  and  his  soul  would 
respond  to  the  fervour  of  mine.  But  it  is  not  be- 
cause I  adore  my  husband  that  I  am  bound  to  abhor 
the  faithful  and  generous  friend  who  so  nobly  risked 
his  life  for  me.  And  if  I  don't  hate  him,  is  that  a 
reason  to  conclude  that  I  love  him?  The  world  can 
think  such  things.  I  hear  such  strange  stories,  and 
such  sad  events  have  happened,  and  calumny  has 
so  embittered  me,  that  I  find  myself  wondering  if 
public  opinion  can  be  true  —  in  doubt  of  myself. 
Can  it  be  that  I  really  am  the  victim  of  a  hideous 
passion,  unconsciously  influenced  by  it?  and  in  some 
sad  and  weak  moment  shall  I  yield  to  the  senses,  and 
be  subjugated  by  this  tyrannous  fire? 

MERCEDES.     You  are  speaking  the  truth? 

TEODORA.     Can  you  doubt  it? 

MERCEDES.     You  really  do  not  love  him? 

TEODORA.  Mercedes,  what  words  have  I  that 
will  convince  you?  At  another  time,  such  a  question 
would  drive  the  blood  of  anger  to  my  brow,  and  to- 

[raj 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


day,  you  see,  I  am  discussing  with  you  whether  I  am 
honest  or  not.  Yes,  am  I  really  so?  To  the  depth 
of  the  soul?  No,  for  endurance  of  this  humiliation 
proves  me  worthy  of  it.  [Hides  her  face  in  her  hands 
and  flings  herself  down  in  the  armchair.] 

MERCEDES.  Do  not  cry  so,  Teodora.  I  believe  in 
you.  Enough !  No  more  tears.  Let  me  but  add  one 
more  word,  and  there's  an  end  to  the  matter.  Ernest 
is  not  what  you  believe  him  to  be.  He  is  not  worthy 
of  your  trust. 

TEODORA.     He  is  good,  Mercedes. 

MERCEDES.     No ! 

TEODORA.     He  is  fond  of  Julian. 

MERCEDES.    He  would  betray  him. 

TEODORA.     Again!    My  God! 

MERCEDES.  I  no  longer  accuse  you  of  responding 
to  his  passion,  but  I  only  assert  —  I  would  warn  you 
that  he  loves  you. 

TEODORA     [Rising  in  anger].     Loves  me! 

MERCEDES.  It  is  known  to  everybody.  In  this 
very  room,  a  moment  ago,  before  Pepito  and  me  — 
you  understand? 

TEODORA.    No,  explain  at  once  —  what? 

MERCEDES.  He  openly  confessed  it.  He  made  a 
violent  declaration,  swore  that  he  was  ready  to  sac- 
[118] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


rifice  life,  honour,  soul,  and  conscience  for  you.  And 
when  you  came,  he  wanted  to  see  you.  He  only 
yielded  to  the  force  of  my  entreaties  and  went  away. 
I  tremble  lest  he  should  meet  Severe  and  their  en- 
counter lead  to  an  explosion.  And  you  —  what 
have  you  to  say  now? 

TEODORA  [Who  has  listened  to  MERCEDES  in- 
tently, held  in  an  indefinable,  gloomy  terror].  Heavens 
above!  Can  it  be  true?  and  I  who  felt  —  who  pro- 
fessed so  sincere  an  affection  for  him! 

MERCEDES.  There,  you  are  on  the  point  of  cry- 
ing again. 

TEODORA.  The  heart  has  no  tears  for  the  mani- 
fold deceptions  of  this  miserable  life.  A  lad  so  pure 
and  finely  natured  —  and  to  see  him  now  so  debased 
and  spotted!  And  you  say  that  he  actually  uttered 
those  words  here  —  he!  —  Ernest!  Oh,  oh,  Mer- 
cedes! send  him  away  from  this  house 

MERCEDES.  Ah,  that  is  what  I  wanted.  Your 
energy  consoles  me.  [With  evidence  of  honest  satis- 
faction.] Pardon  me  —  now  I  fully  believe  you 
[Embraces  her.] 

TEODORA.  And  before?  No?  [The  actress  must 
strongly  accentuate  this  line.] 

MERCEDES.    Hush!    He  is  coming  back. 
[119] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


TEODORA  [Impetuously].  I  will  not  see  him. 
Tell  him  so.  Julian  expects  me. 

[Goes    to    the    right. 

MERCEDES  [Detaining  her].  Impossible!  You 
must  know  it.  He  will  not  heed  my  orders,  and 
now  that  I  understand  so  fully  how  you  feel  for  him, 
I  should  be  glad  to  have  him  suffer  at  your  hands 
the  contempt  he  has  already  endured  at  mine. 

TEODORA.     Then    leave    me.          [Enter   Ernest. 

ERNEST.    Teodora! 

MERCEDES  [Aside  to  TEODORA].  It  is  late,  do 
your  duty  quickly.  [Aloud  to  ERNEST.]  The  com- 
mand you  heard  a  little  while  ago  from  me,  you  will 
receive  again  from  Teodora's  lips,  and  she  is  the 
mistress  of  this  house. 

TEODORA  [In  a  low  voice  to  MERCEDES].  Don't 
go  away. 

MERCEDES     [To  TEODORA].    Are  you  afraid? 

TEODORA.  I  afraid!  I  am  afraid  of  nothing. 
[Makes  a  sign  for  her  to  go.  Exit  DONA  MERCEDES 
on  the  right.] 

SCENE  VII 
TEODORA  and  ERNEST. 

ERNEST.    The  command  was  —  that  I  should  go 
[120] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


away.  [Pause.  Both  remain  silent  without  looking 
at  each  other.]  And  you?  Are  you  going  to  repeat 
it?  [TEODORA  nods,  but  still  does  not  look  at  him.] 
Have  no  fear,  Teodora.  I  will  respect  and  obey 
your  order.  [Submissively.]  The  others  could  not 
get  me  to  obey  them,  little  as  they  may  like  to  hear 
it — [harshly],  —  but  nothing  you  could  say,  even 

though  you  wround  me From  you  I  will  endure 

anything!  [Sadly.] 

TEODORA.  I  wound  you!  No,  Ernest,  you  can- 
not believe  that [Still  does  not  look  at  him,  is 

half  vexed  and  afraid.] 

ERNEST.     I  do  not  believe  it.     [Pause.] 

TEODORA.     Adieu.     I  wish  you  all  happiness. 

ERNEST.  Adieu,  Teodora.  [Remains  waiting  for 
a  moment  to  see  if  she  will  turn  and  offer  him  her  hand. 
Then  walks  down  the  stage,  turns  back  again,  and  ap- 
proaches her.  TEODORA  shows  that  she  feels  his  move- 
ment, and  is  distressed,  but  continues  to  keep  her  face 
averted.]  If  with  my  death  at  this  very  instant  I 
could  blot  out  all  the  misery  that  lies  to  my  account, 
not  through  any  fault  of  mine,  but  through  an  im- 
placable fate,  I  should  not  now  be  standing  here 
alive.  You  may  believe  it  on  the  word  of  an  honour- 
able man.  No  shadow  of  the  past  would  remain  — 
[1211 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


neither  sighs  nor  pain  to  remember,  nor  that  sorrow- 
ful pallor  of  your  face  —  [TEODORA  starts  and  glances 
at  him  in  terror]  —  nor  the  grieved  fear  of  those  eyes, 
nor  sobs  that  tear  the  throat,  nor  tears  that  line  the 
cheek.  [TEODORA  5065.] 

TEODORA  [Aside,  moving  farther  away],  Mer- 
cedes was  right,  and  I,  blind  and  thoughtless  that  I 
was 

ERNEST.  Bid  me  good-bye  —  once  —  for  kind- 
ness* sake. 

TEODORA.  Good-bye!  Yes;  and  I  forgive  you 
all  the  injury  you  have  done  us. 

ERNEST.     I,  Teodora! 

TEODORA.    Yes,  you. 

ERNEST.     What  a  look!    What  a  tone! 

TEODORA.     No  more,  Ernest,  I  beseech  you! 

ERNEST.     What  have  I  done  to  deserve ? 

TEODORA.  It  is  all  over  between  us.  Regard  me 
as  one  who  no  longer  exists  for  you. 

ERNEST.     Is  this  contempt? 

TEODORA.    Go! 

ERNEST.     Go?  in  this  way? 

TEODORA.     My  husband  is  dying  in  there  —  and 
here  I  feel  as  if  I,  too,  were  dying.     [Staggers  back  and 
clutches  the  armchair  to  keep  from  falling.] 
[1221 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


ERNEST.  Teodora!  [Rushes forward  to  support  her.] 

TEODORA  [Angrily  drawing  herself  away}.  Don't 
touch  me.  [Pause.]  Ah,  I  breathe  again  more 
freely.  [Tries  to  walk,  staggers  again  weakly,  and  a 
second  time  ERNEST  offers  to  assist  her.  She  repulses 
him.] 

ERNEST.     Why  not,  Teodora? 

TEODORA.    Your  touch  would  soil  me. 

ERNEST.     I  soil  you! 

TEODORA.    Exactly. 

ERNEST.  I!  [Pause.]  What  does  she  mean? 
Almighty  God!  She  also!  Oh,  it  is  not  possible. 
Oh,  death  is  preferable  to  this!  It  cannot  be  true 

-  I  am  raving Say  it  is  not  true,  Teodora  — 

only  one  word  —  for  justice  —  one  word  of  pardon, 
of  pity,  of  consolation,  madam.  I  am  resigned  to  go 
away,  never  to  see  you  again,  although  'twere  to 
break,  and  mutilate,  and  destroy  my  life.  But  it 
will,  at  least,  be  bearable,  if  I  may  carry  into  solitude 
your  forgiveness,  your  affection,  your  esteem  —  only 
your  pity,  then.  So  that  I  still  may  think  you  believe 
me  loyal  and  upright  —  that  I  could  not,  that  I  have 
not,  degraded  you,  much  less  be  capable  of  insulting 
you.  I  care  nothing  about  the  world,  and  despise 
its  affronts.  Its  passions  inspire  me  with  the  pro- 
[123] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


foundest  disdain.  Whether  its  mood  be  harsh  or 
cruel,  however  it  may  talk  of  me  and  of  what  has 
happened,  it  will  never  think  so  ill  of  me  as  I  do  of 
it.  But  you,  the  purest  dream  of  man's  imagining 
—  you  for  whom  I  would  gladly  give  —  not  only  my 
life,  but  my  right  to  heaven,  ay,  a  thousand  times  — 
eagerly,  joyously  —  You,  to  suspect  me  of  treason, 
of  hypocrisy !  Oh,  this,  Teodora  —  I  cannot  bear ! 
[Deeply  moved,  speaks  despairingly.] 

TEODORA     [With    increasing    nervousness].     You 
have  not  understood  me,  Ernest.     We  must  part. 

ERNEST.     But  not  like  this! 

TEODORA.    Quickly,    for    mercy's    sake.     Julian 
suffers.     [Points  to  the  sick-room.] 

ERNEST.     I  know  it. 

TEODORA.    Then  we  should  not  forget  it. 

ERNEST.    No;  but  I  also  suffer. 

TEODORA.    You,  Ernest?    Why? 

ERNEST.    Through  your  contempt. 

TEODORA.     I  feel  none. 

ERNEST.     You  have  expressed  it. 

TEODORA.     It  was  a  lie. 

ERNEST.     No;  not  entirely.     So  that  our  suffer 
ings  are  not  equal.     In  this  implacable  strife  he 
suffers  as  those  on  earth  suffer,  7  as  those  in  hell. 
[124] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


TEODORA.  Spare  me,  Ernest  —  my  head  is  on 
fire. 

ERNEST.     And  my  heart  aches. 

TEODORA.  That  will  do,  Ernest.  I  entreat  you 
to  pity  me. 

ERNEST.    That  was  all  I  asked  of  you. 

TEODORA.     Mercy? 

ERNEST.  Yes,  mercy.  But  why  should  you 
claim  it?  What  is  it  you  fear?  of  what  are  you  think- 
ing? [Approaches  her.] 

TEODORA.    Forgive  me  if  I  have  offended  you. 

ERNEST.  Offended  me,  no!  The  truth,  that  is 
what  I  crave  —  and  I  implore  it  on  my  knees. 
See,  Teodora,  my  eyes  are  wet.  [Bends  his  knee  be- 
fore her  and  takes  her  hand.  DON  JULIAN'S  door 
opens,  and  DON  SEVERO  stands  staring  at  them.] 

D.  SEVERO    [Aside].     Miserable  pair! 

TEODORA.    Don  Severe! 

SCENE  VIII 

TEODORA,  ERNEST,  and  DON  SEVERO.  ERNEST 
stands  apart  on  the  right.  DON  SEVERO  places 
himself  between  him  and  TEODORA. 

D.  SEVERO     [In  a  low  voice  of  concentrated  anger, 
[125] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


so  that  DON  JULIAN  may  not  hear].  I  can  find  no 
word  or  epithet  adequate  to  the  passion  of  contempt 
I  would  express,  so  I  must  be  content  to  call  you  a 
blackguard.  Leave  this  house  at  once. 

ERNEST  [Also  in  a  low  voice].  My  respect  for 
Teodora,  for  this  house,  and  for  the  sick  man  lying 
in  yonder  room,  sir,  compels  me  to  put  my  retort  — 
in  silence. 

D.  SEVERO  [Ironically,  under  the  impression  that 
ERNEST  is  going].  It's  the  best  thing  you  can  do  — 
obey  and  hold  your  tongue. 

ERNEST.  You  have  not  understood  me.  I  do 
not  intend  to  obey. 

D.  SEVERO.     You  remain? 

ERNEST.  Until  Teodora  commands  me  to  go.  I 
was  on  the  point  of  going  away  forever  a  moment 
ago,  but  the  Almighty  or  the  devil  deterred  me. 
Now  you  come  and  order  me  out,  and  as  if  your  in- 
sult were  an  infernal  message,  it  roots  my  heels  to  the 
floor  in  revolt. 

D.  SEVERO.  We'll  see  tha  .  There  are  servants 
to  kick  you  out,  and  sticks  if  necessary. 

ERNEST.  Try  it.  [Approaches  DON  SEVERO  with 
a  threatening  air.  TEODORA  rushes  between  them.] 

TEODORA.  Ernest!  [Turns  commandingly  to  DON 
[126] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


SEVERO.]  You  seem  to  forget  that  this  is  my  house 
as  long  as  my  husband  lives  and  is  its  owner.  Only 
one  of  us  two  has  the  right  to  command  here. 
[Softens  to  ERNEST.]  Not  for  him  —  but  for  my 
sake,  because  I  am  unhappy 

ERNEST  [Unable  to  contain  his  joy  at  hearing  him- 
self defended  by  TEODORA].  You  wish  it,  Teodora? 

TEODORA.  I  beg  it.  [ERNEST  bows  and  turns 
away.] 

D.  SEVERO.  Your  audacity  confounds  and  shocks 
me  as  much  —  no,  far  more,  than  his.  [Strides  men- 
acingly toward  her.  ERNEST  turns  swiftly  around, 
then  makes  a  strong  effort  to  control  himself  and  moves 
away  again.]  You  dare  to  raise  your  head,  wretched 
woman,  and  before  me,  too!  Shame  on  you! 
[ERNEST  repeats  previous  movements  and  gestures, 
but  this  time  more  accentuated.]  You,  so  fearful  and 
cowardly,  where  have  you  found  courage  to  display 
this  energy  in  his.  defence?  How  eloquent  is  passion! 
[ERNEST  stands  looking  back.]  But  you  forget  that, 
before  pitching  him  out,  I  had  the  authority  to  for- 
bid the  door  of  this  house  to  you,  who  have  stained 
its  threshold  with  Julian's  blood.  Why  have  you 
returned?  [Seizes  her  brutally  and  drags  her  roughly 
toward  himself.] 

[127] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


ERNEST.  No,  I  can't  stand  this  —  I  cannot ! 
[He  thrusts  himself  between  SEVERO  and  TEODORA.] 
Off,  you  scoundrel! 

D.  SEVERO.     Again! 

ERNEST.     Again. 

D.  SEVERO.    You  have  dared  to  return? 

ERNEST.  You  insolently  affront  Teodora.  I 
still  live.  What  do  you  expect  me  to  do,  if 
not  return  and  chastise  you,  and  brand  you  as  a 
coward? 

D.  SEVERO.    Me? 

ERNEST.     Precisely. 

TEODORA.     No! 

ERNEST.  He  has  brought  it  on  himself.  I 
have  seen  him  lift  his  hand  in  anger  to  you  — 
you,  you!  So  now [Seizes  DON  SEVERO  vio- 
lently.] 

D.  SEVERO.     You  impudent  puppy! 

ERNEST.  True,  but  I'll  not  release  you.  You 
loved  and  respected  your  mother,  I  presume.  For 
that  reason  you  must  respect  Teodora,  and  humbly 
bow  before  a  sorrow  so  immense  as  hers.  This 
woman,  sir,  is  purer,  more  honest  than  the  mother  of 
such  a  man  as  you. 

D.  SEVERO.    This  to  me? 
[128] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


ERNEST.    Yes,  and  I  have  not  yet  done. 

D.  SEVERO.     Your  life 

ERNEST.  Oh,  my  life,  as  much  as  you  like  —  but 
afterward.  [TEODORA  endeavours  to  part  them,  but  he 
pushes  her  gently  away,  without  releasing  DON  SEVERO.] 
You  believe  in  a  God  —  in  a  Maker  —  in  hope. 
Well,  then,  as  you  bend  your  knee  before  the  altar 
of  that  God  above,  so  will  I  compel  you  to  kneel  to 
Teodora  —  and  that  instantly,  sir.  Down  —  in 
the  dust. 

TEODORA.    For  mercy's  sake 

ERNEST.  To  the  ground!  [Forces  DON  SEVERO 
to  kneel.] 

TEODORA.    Enough,  Ernest. 

D.  SEVERO.    A  thousand  thunders. 

ERNEST.    At  her  feet! 

D.  SEVERO.    You! 

ERNEST.    Yes,  I. 

D.  SEVERO.    For  her? 

ERNEST.    For  her. 

TEODORA.  That  will  do.  Hush!  [She  points 
in  terror  to  DON  JULIAN'S  door.  ERNEST  releases  DON 
SEVERO,  who  rises  and  moves  backward.  TEODORA 
retreats  and  forms  with  ERNEST  a  group  in  the  back- 
ground.] 

[129] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


SCENE  IX 

TEODORA,  ERNEST,  DON  SEVERO.     Afterward 
DON  JULIAN  and  DONA  MERCEDES. 

D.  JULIAN    [Inside].    Let  me  go. 

MERCEDES    [Inside].    No.    You  must  not. 

D.  JULIAN.     It  is  they.    Don't  you  hear  them? 

TEODORA    [To  ERNEST],     Go. 

D.  SEVERO    [To  ERNEST].    Avenged! 

ERNEST.     I  don't  deny  it. 

[Enter  DON  JULIAN,  pale  and  dying, 
leaning  on  DONA  MERCEDES'  arm. 
DON  SEVERO  stations  himself  on  the 
right,  ERNEST  and  TEODORA  remain 
in  the  background.] 

D.  JULIAN.  Together!  Where  are  they  going? 
Who  detains  them  here?  Away  with  you,  traitors. 
[Wants  to  rush  at  them,  but  strength  fails  him,  and  he 
staggers  back.] 

D.  SEVERO     [Hurrying  to  his  assistance].    No,  no! 
D.  JULIAN.     Severe,    they    deceived   me  —  they 
lied  to  me  —  the  miserable  pan* !     [While  he  speaks 
DON  SEVERO  and  DONA  MERCEDES  lead  him  to  the 
armchair.]     There,  look  at  them  —  both  —  she  and 
Ernest!    Why  are  they  together? 
[130] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


TEODORA  and  ERNEST     [Separating],    No. 

D.  JULIAN.  Why  don't  they  come  to  me?  Teodora! 

TEODORA  [Stretches  out  her  arms  but  does  not 
advance] .  Julian ! 

D.  JULIAN.  Here  in  my  arms.  [TEODORA  runs 
forward  and  flings  herself  into  DON  JULIAN'S  arms, 
who  clasps  her  feverishly.  Pause.]  You  see  —  you 
see  —  [to  DON  SEVERO]  —  I  know  well  enough  they 
were  deceiving  me.  I  hold  her  thus  hi  my  arms.  I 
crush  and  subdue  her —  I  might  kill  her  —  so!  and 
'tis  only  what  she  deserves.  But  I  look  at  her  —  / 
look  at  her  —  and  then  I  cannot! 

TEODORA.    Julian 

D.  JULIAN  [Pointing  to  ERNEST].  And  that 
fellow? 

ERNEST.    Sir! 

D.  JULIAN.  I  loved  him!  Silence,  and  come 
hither.  [ERNEST  approaches.]  You  see,  I  am  still 
her  owner.  [He  holds  TEODORA  more  tightly  clasped.] 

TEODORA.     Yes  —  I  am  yours. 

D.  JULIAN.    Drop  pretence.    Don't  lie. 

MERCEDES  [Striving  to  soothe  him].  For  pity's 
sake 

D.  SEVERO.    Julian! 

P.  JULIAN  [To  both].  Peace.  [To  TEODORA.] 
[131] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


I  see  through  you.  I  know  well  that  you  love  him. 
[TEODORA  and  ERNEST  try  to  protest,  but  he  will  not 
let  them.]  All  Madrid  knows  it,  too  —  all  Madrid. 

ERNEST.    No,  father. 

TEODORA.    No! 

D.  JULIAN.  They  deny  it  —  they  deny  it!  Why, 
it  is  as  clear  as  noonday.  Why,  I  feel  it  in  every 
fibre  —  by  the  beat  of  fevered  pulse,  by  the  consum- 
ing flame  of  inward  illumination! 

ERNEST.  It  is  the  fever  of  your  blood  and  the 
delirium  of  bodily  weakness  that  feed  the  delusion. 
Listen  to  me,  sir 

D.  JULIAN.    To  hear  how  well  you  can  lie? 

ERNEST    [Pointing  to  TEODORA]  .     She  is  innocent ! 

D.  JULIAN.     But  I  do  not  believe  you. 

ERNEST.     Sir,  by  my  father's  memory 

D.  JULIAN.     Don't  insult  his  name  and  memory. 

ERNEST.     By  my  mother's  last  kiss 

D.  JULIAN.  That  kiss  has  long  since  been  wiped 
from  your  brow. 

ERNEST.  What  then  do  you  want,  father?  I 
will  swear  to  anything  you  wish.  Oh,  my  father! 

D.  JULIAN.  No  oaths,  or  protests,  or  deceitful 
words. 

ERNEST.    Then  what?    Only  tell  me. 
[132] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


TEODORA.     Yes,  what,  Julian? 

D.  JULIAN.    Deeds. 

ERNEST.  What  does  he  wish,  Teodora?  What 
does  he  ask  of  us? 

TEODORA.  I  don't  know.  Oh,  what  are  we  to  do, 
Ernest? 

D.  JULIAN  [Watching  them  in  feverish  distrust]. 
Ah,  you  would  even  deceive  me  to  my  face !  You  are 
plotting  together,  wretched  traitors !  I  see  it. 

ERNEST.  It  is  fever  that  misleads  you  —  not  the 
testimony  of  your  eyes. 

D.  JULIAN.  Fever,  yes.  And  since  fever  is  fire, 
it  has  burnt  away  the  bandage  with  which  before  you 
two  had  blinded  me,  and  at  last  I  see  you  for  what 
you  are.  And  now !  —  but  why  these  glances  at 
one  another?  Why,  traitors?  Why  do  your  eyes 
gleam  so?  Tell  me,  Ernest.  There  are  no  tears  in 
them  to  make  them  shine.  Come  nearer  —  nearer  to 
me.  [Draws  ERNEST  to  him,  bends  his  head,  and  then 
succeeds  in  thrusting  him  upon  his  knees.  Thus 
TEODORA  is  on  one  side  of  DON  JULIAN  and  ERNEST 
at  his  feet.  DON  JULIAN  passes  his  hand  across  the 
young  man's  eyes.]  You  see  —  no  tears  —  they  are 
quite  dry. 

ERNEST.    Forgive  me,  forgive  me! 
fl33l 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


D.  JULIAN.  You  ask  my  forgiveness?  Then  you 
acknowledge  your  sin? 

ERNEST.    No. 

D.  JULIAN.    Yes. 

ERNEST.    I  say  it  is  not  so! 

D.  JULIAN.    Then  here  before  me,  look  at  her. 

D.  SEVERO.    Julian 

MERCEDES.     Sir! 

D.  JULIAN  [To  TEODORA  and  ERNEST].  Per- 
haps you  are  afraid?  So  it  is  not  like  a  brother  that 
you  cherish  her?  If  so,  prove  it.  Let  me  see  what 
sort  of  light  shines  in  your  eyes  as  they  meet  — 
whether,  to  my  close  inspection,  the  rays  dart  pas- 
sion's flame,  or  mild  affection.  Come  here,  Teodora. 
Both  —  so  —  still  nearer.  [Drags  TEODORA  until 
she  stumbles,  so  that  both  faces  are  compelled  toward 
each  other.] 

TEODORA  [Frees  herself  with  a  violent  effort]. 
Oh,  no! 

ERNEST  [Also  strives  to  free  himself,  but  is  held  in 
DON  JULIAN'S  grasp].  I  cannot. 

D.  JULIAN.  You  love  one  another  —  you  can't 
deny  it,  for  I've  seen  it.  [To  ERNEST.]  Your  life! 

ERNEST.    Yes. 

D.JULIAN.    Your  blood! 
[134] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


ERNEST.  All. 

D.  JULIAN  [Forcing  him  to  his  knees].  Stay 
still. 

TEODORA.     Julian! 

D.  JULIAN.  Ah,  you  defend  him,  you  defend 
him. 

TEODORA.    Not  for  his  sake. 

D.  SEVERO.    In  God's  name 

D.  JULIAN  [To  SEVERO].  Silence.  [Still  holds 
ERNEST  down.]  Bad  friend,  bad  son! 

ERNEST.    My  father! 

D.  JULIAN.    Disloyal!    Traitor! 

ERNEST.     No,  father. 

D.  JULIAN.  Here  is  my  shameful  seal  upon  your 
cheek.  To-day  with  my  hand  —  soon  with  steel  — 
so!  [With  a  supreme  effort  strikes  ERNEST.  ERNEST 
jumps  up  with  a  terrible  cry,  and  turns  away,  covering 
his  face.] 

ERNEST.     Oh! 

D.  SEVERO  [Stretches  out  his  hand  to  ERNEST]. 
Justice. 

TEODORA.  My  God!  [Hides  her  face  in  boih 
hands,  and  drops  on  a  chair.] 

MERCEDES    [Turning  to  ERNEST  to  exculpate  DON 
JULIAN].     It  was  only  delirium. 
[135] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


[These  four  exclamations  very  hurried. 
A  moment  of  stupor.  DON  JULIAN 
stands  still  staring  at  ERNEST  and 
DONA  MERCEDES  and  DON  SEVERO 
endeavour  to  calm  him.] 

D.  JULIAN.  It  was  not  delirium,  it  was  chastise- 
ment, Heaven  be  praised!  What  did  you  think, 
ungrateful  boy? 

MERCEDES.    That  will  do. 
D.  SEVERO.     Come,  Julian. 

D.  JULIAN.     Yes,  I  am  going.     [Is  led  away  with 
difficulty  between  DON  SEVERO  and  DONA  MERCEDES, 
and  stops  to  look  back  at  TEODORA  and  ERNEST.] 
MERCEDES.     Quickly,  Severe. 
D.  JULIAN.     Look  at  them,  the  traitors!     It  was 
only  justice  —  was  it  not?     Say  so  —  at  least  I  be- 
lieve it. 

D.  SEVERO.     For  God's  sake,  Julian  —  well,  at 

any  rate,  for  mine 

D.  JULIAN.  Yes,  for  yours,  Severe,  only  for 
yours.  You  alone  have  loved  me  truly.  [Embraces 
him.] 

D.  SEVERO.    Yes,  yes,  it  is  so. 
D.  JULIAN     [Stops   at   the   door   and   looks    back 
again].     She  is  crying  for  him  —  and  does  not  follow 
[1361 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


me.  Not  even  a  look.  She  does  not  see  that  I  am 
dying  —  yes,  dying. 

D.  SEVEBO.     Julian,  Julian! 

D.  JULIAN  [On  the  threshold].  Wait,  wait.  Dis- 
honour for  dishonour.  Good-bye,  ERNEST. 

[Exeunt  DON  JULIAN,  DON  SEVERO,  and  MERCEDES. 

SCENE  X 

TEODORA  and  ERNEST.  ERNEST  drops  into  a  chair 
near  the  table.  TEODORA  remains  standing  on  the 
right.  Pause. 

ERNEST    [Aside].    What  is  the  use  of  loyalty? 

TEODORA.     And  what  is  the  use  of  innocence? 

ERNEST.     Conscience  grows  dark. 

TEODORA.     Pity,  my  God!    Pity! 

ERNEST.     Pitiless  destiny. 

TEODORA.     Oh,  most  miserable  fate! 

ERNEST.    Poor  child! 

TEODORA.  Poor  Ernest!  [Both  remain  apart 
until  now.] 

D.  SEVERO  [In  anguish  fromunthin].    My  brother. 

MERCEDES.     Help! 

PEPITO.  Quickly.  [ERNEST  and  TEODORA  move 
together.] 

[137] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


TEODORA.    They  are  crying. 
ERNEST.    He  is  dying. 
TEODORA.     Come  at  once. 
ERNEST.    Where? 
TEODORA.     To  him. 
ERNEST.    We  cannot.     [Detains  her.] 
TEODORA.     Why  not?     I  want  him  to  live. 
ERNEST.     And    I!  —  but    I    cannot.     [Points    to 
DON  JULIAN'S  room.] 

TEODORA.     Then  I  will.     [Rushes  to  the  door.] 

LAST  SCENE 

TEODORA,  ERNEST,  DON  SEVERO,  and  PEPITO. 
ERNEST  stands  on  the  right  in  the  middle  of  the  stage, 
TEODORA  near  the  door  of  DON  JULIAN'S  room. 
PEPITO,  and,  behind  him,  DON  SEVERO,  bar  the  way. 

PEPITO.     Where  are  you  going? 

TEODORA     [In  desperation].     I  must  see  him. 

PEPITO.     It  is  impossible! 

D.  SEVERO.  She  cannot  pass.  This  woman  must 
not  remain  in  my  house  —  turn  her  out  at  once ! 
[To  PEPITO.]  No  compassion  —  this  very  moment. 

ERNEST.    What! 

TEODORA.    My  mind  is  wandering. 

D.  SEVERO.  Though  your  mother  should  stand 
[138] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


in  front  of  that  woman,  Pepito,  you  have  my  orders. 
Obey  them.  Never  mind  her  prayers  or  supplica- 
tions. If  she  should  cry  —  then  let  her  cry.  [With 
concentrated  fury.]  Away  with  her,  away  —  else  I 
might  kill  her. 

TEODORA.    Julian  orders 

D.  SEVEEO.    Yes,  Julian. 

ERNEST.    Her  husband!    It  cannot  be. 

TEODORA.     I  must  see  him. 

D.  SEVERO.    Very  well.    Look  at  him,  once  more 
—  and  then  —  depart. 

PEPITO    [Interfering].    Father 

D.  SEVERO     [Pushing  him  away].    Stop,  sir! 

TEODORA.     It  can't  be  true. 

PEPITO.    This  is  too  horrible. 

TEODORA.    It  is  a  lie! 

D.  SEVERO.     Come,   Teodora  —  come   and   see. 
[Seizes  her  arm  and  leads  her  to  the  door.] 

TEODORA.    Oh!    My   husband!     Julian  —  dead. 
[Staggers  shudderingly  back,  and  falls  half  senseless.] 

ERNEST    [Covering  his  face].    My  father!  [Pause. 
DON  SEVERO  watches  them  rancorously.] 

D.  SEVERO    [To  his  son].    Turn  her  out. 

ERNEST    [Placing  himself  before  TEODORA].    What 
cruelty ! 

[  139 ) 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


PEPITO    [Doubting].    Sir 

SEVERO  [To  PEPITO].  Such  are  my  orders.  Do 
you  doubt  my  word? 

ERNEST.     Pity. 

D.  SEVERO  [Pointing  to  the  death-chamber].  Yes, 
such  pity  as  she  showed  him. 

ERNEST.  Fire  races  through  my  veins.  I  will 
leave  Spain,  sir. 

D.  SEVERO.     It  makes  no  difference. 

ERNEST.     She  will  die. 

D.  SEVERO.     Life  is  short. 

ERNEST.    For  the  last  time 

D.  SEVERO.     No  more.     [To  his  son.]     Ring! 

ERNEST.    But  I  tell  you  she  is  innocent.    I  swear  it. 

PEPITO     [Interceding].     Father 

D.  SEVERO  [With  a  contemptuous  gesture].  That 
fellow  lies. 

ERNEST.  You  impel  me  with  the  current.  Then 
I  will  not  struggle  against  it.  I  go  with  it.  I  can- 
not yet  know  what  may  be  her  opinion  —  [pointing 
to  TEODORA]  —  of  others,  and  of  your  outrages. 
Her  lips  are  silent,  mute  her  thoughts.  But  what 
I  think  of  it  all  —  yes,  I  will  tell  you. 

D.  SEVERO.     It  is  useless.     It  won't  prevent  me 

from [Approaches  TEODORA.] 

[140] 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 


PEPITO     [Restraining  him].     Father 

ERNEST.  Stay.  [Pause.]  Let  nobody  touch 
this  woman.  She  is  mine.  The  world  has  so  desired 
it,  and  its  decision  I  accept.  It  has  driven  her  to  my 
arms.  Come,  Teodora.  [He  raises  her,  and  sus- 
tains her.]  You  cast  her  forth  from  here.  We 
obey  you. 

D.  SEVERO.    At  last,  you  blackguard! 

ERNEST.  Yes;  now  you  are  right.  I  will  con- 
fess now.  Do  you  want  passion?  Then  passion 
and  delirium.  Do  you  want  love?  Then  love  — 
boundless  love.  Do  you  want  more?  Then  more 
and  more.  Nothing  daunts  me.  Yours  the  inven- 
tion, I  give  it  shelter.  So  you  may  tell  the  tale.  It 
echoes  through  all  this  heroic  town.  But  should  any 
one  ask  you  who  was  the  infamous  intermediary  in 
this  infamy,  you  will  reply  "ourselves  without  being 
aware  of  it,  and  with  us  the  stupid  chatter  of  busy- 
bodies."  Come,  Teodora;  my  mother's  spirit  kisses 
your  pure  brow.  Adieu,  all.  She  belongs  to  me, 
and  let  heaven  choose  its  day  to  judge  between  you 
and  me.  [Gathers  TEODORA  into  his  embrace,  with  a 
glance  of  defiance  around.] 


CURTAIN 


THE   COUNTKT   LIFE  PRESS 
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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

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